niiiDBr  uomociigs 


ajs ..... ...onoiogues 


Mrs.UughBell 


lUu^    /^  cute 


CHAMBER   COMEDIES 


BY    THE    SAME   AUTHOR. 

I'KTIT  THfiATEE  DES  ENFANTS.  Twelve  Tiny 
Fronch  Plajs  for  CUildieii.    Fcp.  8vo.     l.s.  6(i. 

THEATRE  DE  LA  JEUNESSE.  Twelve  Little 
Frencli  Playa  for  Schoolroom  anil  Drawing  Ilooiu.  Fci>.  8vo. 
2s.  6d. 

WILL  0'  THE  WJSP:  a  Story.  With  9  IllustratioriH 
by  E.  L.  Shl'TE.    Crown  8vo.  3*.  6d. 

London  :  LONGMANS,  GREEN,  &  CO. 


CHAMBER     COMEDIES 

A   COLLECTION  OF  PLAYS  AND  MONOLOGUES 
FOR    THE   DRAWING  ROOM 


BY 

MES    HUGH    BELL 


LONDON 

LONGMANS,    GEEEN,    AND    CO. 

AND  NEW  YORK  :  15  EAST  16'"  STREET 
1890 

All    rights    reserved 


PniNTED    BY 

SPOTl'lSTTOODK    AND    C0„    NKW-STllEET    SQUABB 

LONDON 


la 


|l   #. 


Digitized  by  tine  Internet  Arcliive 

in  2007  witli  funding  from 

IVIicrosoft  Corporation 


littp://www.arcli  ive.org/details/cliambercomediescOObelliala 


CONTENTS 


Chamfters 
Male    l-'einiile 

PAdR 

L'lXDECIS 

1 

2 

I 

A  Chance  Ixtekview  . 

1 

2 

21 

The  Wrong  Poet  .... 

3 

3 

as 

The  Public  Prosecutok 

2 

2 

55 

A  Woman  op  Culture 

•) 

'ii 

80 

In  a  First-Class  Waiting-Uoom 

2 

1 

123 

A  Joint  Household     . 

... 

2 

137 

An  Unpublished  MS.  . 

— 

o 

154 

A  Modern  Locusta 

2 

171 

The  'Swiss  Times' 

-— 

fi 

lfS7 

Last  Words  '         .        .        .        . 

. 

2 

213 

A  Woman  of  Courage  -     Monologue 

— 

1 

227 

A  Hard  Day's  Work'            ,. 

-. 

1 

237 

The  Keliquary  '                       ,. 

— 

1 

248 

The  Waterproof  '                    „ 

— 

1 

258 

Oh,  No  ! ' 

— 

1 

2fi5 

Not  to  be  Forwarded 

1 

— 

271 

The  Crossing  Sweepek 

.  (A  Boy".. 

Fart) 

270 

The  A'^iceroy's  Wedding 

— 

1 

280 

Jack  and  the  Beanstalk         i     „, 
Beauty  and  the  Beast             -     p. 

\>  fo 
Itlrcr 

r 

2 

3 

2S7 
302 

The  Surprise                             1 

■6 

u 

317 

'  Reprinted  from  'Temple  Bar,'  by  permission  of  Mcs.srs. 
Bentley. 

-  Reprinted  from  •  The  Woman's  World,"  by  permission  of 
Cassell  &  Co.,  Limited. 


L'lND^CIS 

COMEDIE  EN  UN  ACTS. 

PERSON  STAGES. 

Paul  Imbebt        .        .        .      (35  4  40  ans). 
Alike  Delarochb        .        .      (veuve,  28  ans). 
LOUISON  ....      (femme  de  chambre). 

SctNE. — Le  salon  de  madame  Delaroche.  Au  Jond,  bureau, 
avec  ce  qu'il  faut  pour  ecrire.  Au  premier  plan,  tine 
jietite  table  d,  ouvrage.     Un  canape,  des  sieges,  etc. 

Louison  (introduisant  Imhert).  Si  monsieur  veut 
entrer — je  vais  prevenir  madame. 

Imhert.  C'est  bien,  c'est  bien.  {Se  ravisant)  Non,  ne  la 
prevenez  pas,  je  voudrais  plutdt  lui  faire  une  petite  sur- 
prise. 

Louison.  Tres  bien,  monsieur.  Alors,  je  ne  prdviendrai 
pas  madame  ? 

Imbert.     Mais  si  .  .  .  mais  si  ...  la  surprise  poun-ait 
lui  etre  desagreable  .  .  .  eniin,  faites  comme  vous  voudrez. 
Louison.     Bien,  monsieur  !  [Ulle  sort. 

Imbert  (seul).  Decidement,  il  n'y  a  pas  de  plus  grand 
tourment  que  I'indecision  !  je  ne  peux  pas  arriver  a  savoir 
ce  que  je  veux  .  .  .  je  suis  dans  la  situation  la  plus  embar- 
rassante,  la  plus  terrible  dans  laquelle  puisse  se  trouver  un 
homme  de  mon  age,  eperdument  amoureux  d'une  jeune  et 
charmante  veuve.  Oui,  je  suis  amoureux  !  cela  au  moins 
je  le  sais — amoureux  au  point  de  demander  en  mariage  celle 

B 


2  VIndccis 

que  j'aime.  Mais  par  quelles  angoisses,  6  clieux  !  ai-je  passe 
pour  en  arriver  jusque-la  !  et  de  dire  qu'apres  tout,  apres 
avoir  pris  cette  decision  surhumaine,  j'ignore  encore  a 
I'heure  qu'il  est,  si  ou  non  j'ai  formellement  demande  la  main 
de  la  belle  madame  Delaroche  !  Cela  vous  semble  bizarre, 
n'est-ce  pas  %  c'est  pourtant  vrai.  Voici  comment  la 
chose  s'est  passee.  J'ai  fait  la  connaissance  de  madame 
Delaroche  a  Trouville,  I'et^  dernier,  sur  la  plage,  ou 
elle  etait  toujours  tres  entour^e,  tres  recherchee — ce 
qui  du  reste  n'avait  rien  d'etonnant,  elle  est  toujours 
si  aimable  pour  tout  le  monde  !  c'est  I'unique  defaut 
(;ue  je  lui  reproche,  celui  d'etre  trop  avenante,  trop 
charmante  envers  les  gens  ennuyeux — et  Dieu  salt  s'il  s'en 
trouve,  des  ennuyeux,  sur  la  plage  de  Trouville  !  comme, 
du  reste,  partout  ailleurs.  Le  vicomte  de  Ravignan,  par 
exemple,  ce  grand  lieutenant  de  cavalerie — quel  benet  ! 
D'abord,  je  ne  peux  pas  soufFrir  les  militaires.  Je  sais  bien 
que  cela  n'est  pas  bien  port^  en  France  a  I'heure  qu'il  est, 
de  ne  pas  aimer  les  militaires  :  mais  que  voulez-vous— je 
suis  comme  cela — je  ne  peux  pas  les  voir,  non,  je  ne  peux 
pas  les  voir !  et  le  souvenir  de  ce  Ravignan,  toujours 
assidu,  toujours  empress^  auprfes  de  madame  Delaroche  a 
Trouville,  me  crispe  les  nerfs  rien  que  d'y  penser.  Mais 
eiifin,  il  n'a  pas  besoin  qu'on  s'occupe  de  lui  en  ce  moment, 
pauvre  gar^on,  puisqu'il  est  en  garnison  de  province,  et  que 
madame  Delaroche,  depuis  trois  mois  qu'elle  est  rentree  a 
Paris,  n'a  pas  paru  trop  obsed^e  de  son  souvenir  .  .  .  tandis 
que  pour  moi,  pendant  ces  trois  mois,  elle  a  ^te  parfaite — 
j'ai  frequente  son  salon,  je  I'ai  rencontree  dans  le  monde, 
j'ai  appris  a  la  connaitre,  et  je  commence  enfin  a  entrevoir 
que  je  suis  amoureux  comme  un  gar^on  de  vingt  ans,  et  que 
je  n'ai  plus  qu'a  demander  sa  main.  A  qui  m'adresser  ? 
elle  est  orpheline  .  .  .  elle  a  bien  un  frfere,  a  ce  qu'il  parait, 
au  Brdsil— il  colonise.  C'est  un  peu  loin  !  il  n'y  a  done  qu'a 
elle-meme  que  je  puisse  faire  ma  demande,  cela  est  evident. 


L' Inducts  3 

Eh  bien,  apres  avoir  pris  cette  resolution,  j'attends  encore 
vne  semaine,  pendant  laquelle  je  pese  le  pour  et  le  contre_ 
Enfin,hier  soir  je  retrouve  madame  Delaroche  dans  le  monde, 
a  un  bal  au  ministere — nous  passons  une  soiree  delicieuse  .  .  . 
je  sens  que  nulle  autre  femme  ne  pourra  completer  moii 
existence  .  .  .  jerentre  agite,  heureux,  tenant  a  la  main  une 
precieuse  relique  de  ma  bien-aimee,  un  carnet  qu'elle  avait 
laiss^  tomber.  Je  passe  une  nuit  blanche  .  .  .  je  compose 
une  lettre  d'une  Eloquence  persuasive  .  .  .  le  matin,  je  cours 
moi-meme  la  jeter  a  la  poste.  Une  fois  la  lettre  partie, 
j'esperais  reprendre  mon  calme — me  retrouver  tranquille, 
digne,  attendant  de  pied  ferme  la  decision  de  celle  que 
j'adore.  Aucunement  !  une  fois  la  lettre  partie,  nies 
angoisses  me  reprennent  de  plus  belle  .  .  .  je  recommence 
mes  discussions  avec  moi-meme  .  .  .  je  me  repr^sente  le  refus 
accablant  qui  m'attend  peut-etre  .  .  .  bref,  je  me  dis  qu'il 
serait  plus  prudent  d'attendre  encore  vingt-quatre  heures,  et 
je  me  precipite  dans  le  bureau  de  poste,  pour  rt'clamer  ma 
lettre  k  I'employe.  '  Comment,  monsieur  !  me  repond-il  d'un 
ton  bourru — vous  ignorez  qu'une  lettre  une  fois  jetee  a  la 
poste  ne  peut  pas  etre  reclamee  ?  elle  ne  vous  appartient  plus  ! 
• —  Comment,  elle  ne  m'appartient  plus  ?  —  Non,  monsieur, 
non  !  elle  ne  vous  appartient  plus.  —  Quoi  !  la  lettre  que  je 
viens  d'ecrire  est  la,  devant  mes  yeux,  et  je  n'oserais  pas 
etendre  la  main  pour  la  prendre  1  mais  puisque  je  vous  dis  que 
j'ai  change  d'avis  depuis  que  j'ai  ecrit  cette  lettre,  que  vous 
allez  vous  rendre  complice  dun  maiheur,  oui,  d'un  malheur 
irreparable  si  vous  persistez  a  I'expedier !  —  Mais,  monsieur, 
c'est  pour  expedier  les  lettres  que  je  suis  ici,  ce  n'est 
pas  pour  confesser  le  public  !  me  r^pond-il  impatiente  :  si 
t'  malheur  qui  vous  menace  est  aussi  grand  que  cela,  envoyez 
I'.ne  depeche  pour  dire  que  vous  avez  change  d'avia — elle 
arrivera  encore  avant  la  lettre  I '  Oh,  quels  insolents  que 
ces  employes  de  bureau  !  je  sors  furieux,  la  rage  dans  I'ame 
— j'arpente  le  boulevard  pejidant  une  demi-heure  —  je   me 

B2 


4  L  Inducts 

ripete  cent  fois  qu'elle  ne  voudra  pas  de  moi,  que  j'aurais 
mieux   fait  d'attendre  .  .  .  je  suis  desesper^.     Je  Ifeve  les 
yeux — ^.je  suis  a  la  porte  d'un  bureau  telegraphique  !  c'est  la 
Providence  qui  m'a  amene  en  ce  lieu  !  j'entre,  je  saisis  uno 
plume — d'une  main  agit^e  j'^cris  la  depeche  suivante  :  '  A 
madame  Delaroche,  305    Boulevard  Malesherbes.      Priere 
pas  ouvrir  ma  lettre  arrivant  aujourd'hui  ' — je  la  donne  a  un 
employe  ennuye  qui  n'a  pas  Fair  de  faire  attention  a  moi  .  .  . 
je  sors,  je  reprends  mon  chemin.     Je  voudrais  me  retrouver 
le    coeur   soulage  .  .  .  mais  non,  impossible  !  me  voila  de 
nouveau  navre  de  regrets  poignants  !    je  ne  vois  que  trop 
clairement  que  j'ai  ete  un  imbecile,  un  triple  imbecile  d'avoir 
laiss^  ^chapper  le  bonheur  que  j'avais  sous  la  main.    Je  pense 
avec  douleur  a  mon  foyer  perdu,  a  la  douce  compagne  de 
ma  vie,  a  laquelle  de  mon  propre  mouvement  j'ai  renonce  .  .  . 
je    n'y   tiens  plus  !    je  retourne  sur  mes  pas,  je   cours,  je 
vole,   je  me   precipite  dans  le  bureau  telegraphique   pour 
reolamer  ma  depeche — vous  me  croirez  si  vous  voudrez,  elle 
etait  d^ja  partie  !   Partie  !  c'est  inoui  !  Que  voulez-vous  1  il 
faut  bien  que  le  service  telegraphique  se  fasse  avec  prompti- 
tude quelquefois,  raeme  a  Paris.     II  ne  me  reste  plus  qu'une 
chose  a  faire,  c'est  de  courir  moi-meme  Boulevard  Males- 
herbes pour  arriver  avant  la  depeche.     C'est  cela  !  je  me 
jette  dans  une  voiture,  nous  partons  a  fond  de  train,  et 
me  voici  en  possession  du  terrain  !  c'est  toujours  quelque 
chose.     (//  se  promene  dans  la  chambre — regarde  les  livres, 
etc.)    Decidement,  madame  Delaroche  ne  se  presse  pas  !  mais, 
au  fait,  j'ai  dit  qu'il  ne  fallait  pas  I'avertir  de  ma  presence 
ici  .  .  .  j'ai  eu  to't,  comme  d'habitude  !  je  pensais  a  lui 
menager  une  j  etite  surprise,  agreable  peut-etre  .  .  .  mais 
que  faire  si  la  surprise  ne  lui  plaisait  pas — si  je  ne  voyais  sur 
ses  traits  expressifs  qu'un  ennui  profond  en  m'apercevant  1 
je  ferais  peut-etre  mieux  de  repartir,  et  de  revenir  toute  a 
I'heure.     (//  se  dirige  vers  la  porte.)   Ah,  la  voila  !  eh  bien,  je 
lui  dirai  que  je  suis  venu  pour  lui  rendre  le  carnet,  voila  tout. 


L'Indecis  5 

Aline  entre,  une  corheiUe  a  ouvrage  h  la  main. 

Aline  (s^irjyrise).  Monsieur  Imbert  !  la  bonne  surprise  ! 
Y  a-t-il  longtemps  que  vous  etes  la  ?  on  ne  m'avait  pas 
pi  Avenue. 

Imbert.  Madame  .  .  .  quelques  minutes  seulement  .  .  . 
mais  le  temps  m'a  paru  long  sans  vous,  comme  toujours. 

A/ine  (som-ianf).      Vous  etes  trop  ainiable. 

Imhert.  Quelle  charmante  soiiee  hier  au  niinistirc, 
n'est-ce  pas  ? 

Aline.  Charmante,  en  effet,  une  soiree  tout  a  fait 
agreable.  A  propos,  pendant  que  j'y  pense — est-ce  que  je 
vous  aurai  eonfie  par  hasard  un  petit  carnet  que  je  tenais 
a  la  main  ' 

Imhert.    Non,  madame,  non,  vous  ne  me  I'avez  pas  confre. 

Aline.     Alors,  mon  dernier  espoir  est  perdu. 

Imbert.  Vous  ne  me  I'avez  pas  conlie,  mais  vrus  r-"",-: 
laisse  tomber  en  sortant  de  la  salle,  et  j'ai  eu  le  Lonheur  de 
le  ramasser.     Le  voici,  je  vous  I'apportais. 

AHne.  Comment,  vous  avez  eu  cette  pre'voyance  ?  Je 
vous  remercie  mille  fois — ^je  tenais  beaucoup  a  ce  petit 
carnet,  que  mon  pere  m'a  donne  ...  en  1  entrant  j'ai  voulu 
y  chercher  une  adresse,  et  cest  en  m'apercevant  que  je  ne 
I'avais  plus  que  j'ai  tout  de  suite  pense  a  vous. 

Imhert.  Je  regrette  de  vous  I'avoir  rendu  alors,  car 
vous  auriez  eu  I'occasion  de  penser  a  moi  chaque  fois  que 
vous  vouliez  chercher  une  adresse. 

Aline.  Mais  il  me  semble  que  cela  ne  serait  pas  bicn 
flatteur  pour  vous — c'est  plutct  un  role  d'almanach  Bottiii 
<}ue  celui  de  preux  chevalier  que  vous  vous  attribuez  la  ! 

Imbert.  Je  ne  demanderais  pas  mieux  que  d'etre  votre 
Bottin — toujours  pres  de  vous,  a  la  portee  de  votre  main. 

Aline  {riant  malgre  elle).  Je  vous  demande  pardon  de 
rire,  mais  vraiment,  cette  comparaisoji  est  par  trcp 
prosaique  ! 


6  L  Fudecis 

Imhert  (vexs).  En  effet,  oui.  (A  part)  J'ai  voulu  la 
toucher,  elle  se  moque  de  moi  ! 

Aline.  Souhaitez  plutot  d'etre  un  mince  volume  de 
poesies,  que  je  tieudrais  a  la  main. 

Imhert.  C'est  cela,  oui,  un  volume  de  ponies  remplies 
d".  psnsees  tendres  et  delicates,  dont  chaque  page  respire  le 
scutiment  et  I'amour. 

Aline.  Oh  !  comme  vous  dites  cela  bien  !  c'est  char- 
iiiaiit — vous  etes  un  poete  manque  ! 

Imhert  (interdit).     Manque,  madam e  ! 

Aline.  Je  voulais  seulement  dire  que  vous  auriez  du 
^'ous  consacrer  a  la  poesie,  que  vous  vous  etes  mepris  sur 
votre  veritable  vocation. 

Imhert  [Jlatte).  Mon  Dieu,  madame,  pour  ce  qui  est  de 
la  vocation,  j'ai  bien  la  pretention  de  me  consacrer  un  peu 
a  la  litterature,  comme  tout  le  monde  au  jour  qu'il  est — ^je 
fai<5  quelauefois  des  vers,  de  la  prose  aussi  .  .  .  quelquefois 
je  n'en  fais  pas — voila  mes  moments  vraiment  inspire  ! 

Aline.  Comment,  vous  ecrivez  ?  vous  etes  auteur,  et 
vous  avez  la  modestie  de  ne  pas  vous  declarer  ? 

Imhert.  Mais,  madame,  jusqu'ici  ce  sont  les  editeurs 
qui  ont  eu  de  la  nnxlestie  pour  moi,  et  qui  m'ont  empeche 
de  reclamer  I'attention  du  public  .  .  .  d'ailleui^,  pour  moi, 
la  poesie  est  plutdt  une  amie,  una  contidente,  qu'un  nioyen 
de  reclame. 

Aline.  Oh,  que  c'est  beau,  que  c'est  gdnereux  ce  que 
\  ous  dites  la  !  Ainsi,  pour  vous  la  poesie  est  uniquement 
un  moyen  d'epanchement  ?  dans  les  moments  d'emotion 
peut-^tre  .  .  . 

Imhert.     Justement,  madame,  oui,  vous  me  devinez  .  .  . 
dans  des   moments  d'emotion,  comme  tout  a  I'heure,   par 
exemple,  une  m^taphore  a  I'aile  hardie  s'echappe  de  mes 
levres  .  .  .  voila  comme  je  suis. 

Aline.  Oh,  vous  n'avez  pas  idde  a  quel  point  cela 
m'interesse  de  penetrer  ainsi  dans  les  secrets  de  I'inspira- 


VIndecis  '7 

tion  po^tique  !  Et  vos  ecrits  ?  C'est  peut-etre  dans  les 
moments  de  solitude  qu'un  morceau  fugitif  s'echappe  de 
votre  plume. 

Imbert.     Oui,  madame,  oui  :  c'est  cela. 

Aline.  Ne  me  ferez-vous  pas  voir  une  fois  quelque 
chose  que  vous  aurez  ^crit  ? 

Imbert  (d  part).    Helas,  que  trop  !     Si  je  saisissais  cette 

occasion  pour  lui  dire 

\0n,  entend  sonner.     Imbert  tressaille,  il  regarde  In 
porte  avec  inquietude. 

Aline.  Qu'avez-vous,  monsieur  Imbert  ?  vous  paraissez 
inquiet  ? 

Imbert.  Mais,  madame,  j'ai  cru  entendre  des  pas,  puis 
un  coup  de  sonnette. 

Aline.  Eh  bien,  quand  cela  serait  1  Ce  n'est  pro- 
bablement  que  le  facteur,  qui  passe  ordinairement  vers 
cette  heure-ci. 

Imbert  (inquiet).     Le  facteur? 

Aline  (surprise),  Mais,  mon  cher  monsieur,  qu'avez- 
vous  done? 

Imbert  (cherchant).  Madame,  vous  me  voyez  confondu .  .  . 
je  vais  vous  expliquer  la  chose  .  .  .  c'est  tres  singulier  .  .  .  c'est 
plus  fort  que  moi  .  .  .  mais  depuis  ma  plus  tendre  enfance  j'ai 
toujours  eu  la  plus  profonde  antipathie  pour  les  facteurs. 

Aline  (surprise).     Pour  les  facteurs  ? 

Imbert.  Pour  les  facteurs,  oui,  madame  (parlant 
rapidem^nt).  II  y  a  de  ces  exemples,  qui  sont  parfaitement 
bien  connus  dans  le  monde  de  la  science,  de  ces  antipathies 
natives,  iiiexplicables,  contre  lesquelles  la  raison  ne  peut 
rien  .  .  .  ainsi,  il  y  a  des  personnes  qui  ne  peuvent  supporter 
la  vue  d'une  araignee — il  y  en  a  d'autres  chez  qui  la  presence 
d'un  chat  produit  une  crise  de  nerfs  ...  eh  bien,  moi  aussi 
j'ai  des  antipathies  comme  cela,  et  je  vous  affirme  que  la  seule 
pens^e  que  je  viens  peut-etre  d'entendre  les  pas  d'un  facteur, 
encore  invisible  pour  moi,  sur  le  palier  de  votre  apparte- 


'3  Llnd^cis 

ment,  me  cause  un  malaise  inexprimable,  qu'il  m'est  extreme- 
nient  diflScile  de  vaincre. 

Aline.  Voila  un  fait  tout  a  fait  singulier — vous  devriez 
en  faire  part  a  I'Acad^mie  des  Sciences. 

Imbert.     C'est  vrai,  on  pourrait  trouver  cela  int^ressant. 

[On  entend  un  bruit  de  pas,  puis  deux  coups  de  sonnette. 

Aline  {souriant).  Rassurez-vous,  on  a  sonne  deux  fois  .  .  . 
ce  n'est  pas  le  facteur,  ce  sera  probablement  une  depeche. 

Imbert  (vivement  emu).     Une  depeche  !     Ah  !  !  .   .  . 

[Louison  entre  avec  tine  depeche. 

Aline.  Vous  voyez,  j'ai  eu  raison — voila  une  enveloppe 
bleue.  [Louison  sort. 

Imbert.     Une  enveloppe  bleue  !     Ah  !     [Iljette  un  cri. 

Aline.     Mais  qu'avez-vous  ?  encore  une  antipathic  1 

Imbert.  Madame,  je  vous  conjure  de  me  pardonner  .  .  . 
je  sens  que  je  suis  completement  ridicule,  mais  je  vous 
avouerai  que — que — ^je  ne  peux  pas  supporter  le  bleu  !  (A 
part)  C'est  9a,  j'ai  trouve  ! 

Aline.     Le  bleu  ?  vous  n'aimez  pas  cette  couleur  1 

Imbert.  Non  seulement  je  ne  I'aime  pas,  mais  je  ne 
peux  pas  la  supporter. 

Aline.  Comment  faites-vous  alors,  vous  qui  vivez  sous 
le  ciel  bleu  de  Paris?  Voila  une  antipathie  qui  doit  etre 
assez  genante. 

Imbert.  Du  tout,  madame,  du  tout  ...  a  Paris  il  y  a 
bien  de  quoi  regarder  dans  la  ville,  sans  lever  les  yeux  plus 
haut — si  je  veux  regarder  le  ciel,  je  n'ai  qu'a  aller  a  Londres, 
ou  il  est  toujours  gris. 

Aline  (souriant).  Au  moins  je  puis  vous  6ter  la  vue  de 
cette  depeche.  (JSlle  la  tient  d,  la  main,  derriere  le  dos.) 
L^,  vous  voila  calme,  je  I'esp^re  ? 

Imbert  (tres  nerveux).  Oh,  tout  a  fait,  absolument  .  .  . 
je  suis  extremement  calme. 

Aline  (le  regardant).     Vous  faites  bien  de  me  le  dire  ! 

Ivibert.     Pourquoi  1 


Ulnd^cis  9 

Aline.  Parce  que  je  vous  trouve,  au  contraire,  exces- 
sivement  agite. 

Imhert.  Mon  Dieu,  niadame,  vous  allez  me  trouver 
tr^s  arriere — mais  je  vous  avouerai  que,  malgre  le  nombre 
de  depeches  expediees  par  tout  le  monde  aujourd'hui,  malgre 
notre  emploi  constant  du  fil  clectrique  a  chaque  instant  de 
la  vie,  je  n'ai  jamais  pu  m'habituer  a  voir  arriver  un  tel^- 
gramme  sans  en  ressentir  une  vive  emotion. 

Aline.  Est-il  possible,  au  jour  oij  nous  sommes  ?  Eh 
bien,  ^oyez,  au  contraire,  combien  je  suis  esprit  fort,  moi !  je 
re9ois  cette  depeche,  je  la  tiens  a  la  main  avant  de  la  lire, 
avec  un  calme  absolu — elle  ne  me  cause  pas  la  moindre 
emotion. 

Iinbert.  Mais,  madame,  vous  ne  songez  pas  que  ce 
chiffon  de  papier  dont  vous  parlez  si  legerement  peut 
contenir  la  nouvelle  d'un  desastre  efFroyable — que  les 
quelques  paroles  sinistres  que  vous  y  trouverez  vous  appren- 
dront  peut-etre  quelque  accident,  quelque  malheur  amive  a 
une  personne  qui  vous  est  chere  .  .  .  qui  sait  ?  un  tele- 
gramme  est  capable  de  tout  !  en  le  tenant  a  la  main  on  se 
sent  parcourir  toute  la  gamme  des  possibilites  humaines  ! 

Aline.  Mais  vous  avez  I'imagination  illimitee,  monsieur 
Imbert !  quand  je  vous  disais  que  vous  devriez  vous  faii-e 
poete  !  Voyons,  pour  vous  rassurer  je  vais  ouvrir  cette 
depeche  alarmante,  et  vous  verrez  qu'il  n'y  aura  pas  de  quoi 
vous  inquieter — vous  n'y  trouverez  pas  cette  nouvelle 
foudroyante  qui,  selon  vous,  nous  attend  ! 

ySlle  ouvre  la  depeche — Imhert  la  regarde  avec  inquietude. 

Iinbert  (d,  part).  Mais  puisque  je  sais  a  I'avance  que  je 
vais  etre  foudroye,  j'ai  bien  le  droit  d'etre  inquiet,  il  me 
semble ! 

Aline.     Mais  c'est  incomprehensible — c'est  un  enigme  ! 
.  .  .  je  n'y  coraprends  rien. 
"     Imhert  {trouble').     Vous  n'y  comprenez  .  ,   .  rien  1  .  .  . 

Aline.     Absolument  rien. 


lO  LIndecis 

Imhert.  J'espfere  au  raoins  que  mes  provisions  se  sont 
trompees,  et  que  ce  n'est  pas  une  niauvaise  nouvelle  qu'on 
vous  envoie  1 

Aline.  Une  mauvaise  nouvelle  !  mais  ce  n'est  pas  une 
nouvelle  du  tout !  ecoutez  plutOt — '  Priere  pas  ouvrir  ma 
lettre  arrivant  aujourd'hui ' — Voila  tout !  vous  conviendrez 
que  cela  est  mysterieux. 

Imhert  {agitS).  En  effet  .  .  .  tres  mystdrieux  .  .  .  oui  ! 
Est  ce  que  vous  auriez  dOja  re9u  la  lettre  dont  il  est 
question  ? 

Aline.  Mais  puisque  je  ne  sais  pas  seulement  de  qui 
elle  est,  cette  lettre,  j'ignore  si  je  I'ai  ret-ue  ! 

Imhert.  II  me  setnble  qu'elle  doit  etre  de  la  meme 
personne  qui  vous  a  envoyO  le  tt^legramme. 

Aline.  C'est  evident !  mais  quelle  est-elle,  cette  personne 
inconnue  %  elle  n'a  pas  meme  pense  a  signer  la  depeche  ! 

Imhert  (vivemsnt).  Comment,  la  depeche  n'est  pas 
signde  ? 

Aline.  Mais  non,  elle  n'est  pas  signOe — je  ne  comprends 
pas  cela,  car  il  y  a  ordinairement  tant  de  formalitOs  a 
remplir. 

Imhert.  C'est  cet  employ^  distrait  qui  n'a  pas  pensO  k 
regarder !  (se  reprenant)  je  vsux  dire,  cela  arrive  quelquefois. 

Aline.  Entin,  inutile  de  nous  en  preoccuper  davantage 
.  .  .  je  n'ai  qu'a  attendre  I'arrivee  de  la  lettre,  qui  me 
donnera  la  clef  de  I'enigme  !  {Se  ravisant)  Mais  non,  puisque 
je  ne  dois  pas  I'ouvrir !  et,au  fait,  comment  saurais-je  laquelle 
je  ne  dois  pas  lire  ?  faudra-t-il  que  je  me  prive  d'un  des  plus 
grands  plaisirs  d'une  femme,  celle  de  recevoir  et  de  lire  ses 
lettres,  a  cause  de  cette  malheureuse  depeche?  par  exemple, 
ce  serait  trop  ! 

Imhert  (inquiet).  Mais,  madarae,  que  comptez  vous 
faire  alors  ? 

Aline.  Ce  que  je  compte  faire  ?  c'est  tout  simple  : 
je  compte  tout  bonnement  ouvrir  et  lire  chaque  lettre  que 
je  reQois  pendant  toute  la  journee  d'aujourd'hui !  s'il  y  en  a 


Ulndecis  1 1 

dont  le  contenu  n'est  pas  pour  moi,  tant  pis — ^je  le  regrette, 
mais  ce  ne  sera  pas  de  ma  faute. 

Imhert  {a  part).  Grands  dieux  !  que  faire  ?  je  ne  peux 
cependant  pas  rester  ici  .  .  .  ce  serait  terrible  !  {^Prenant 
cortge)  Madame  ... 

Aline.  Mais  nou  .  .  .  restez  .  .  .  restez  encore  un  in- 
stant -  nous  n'avons  pas  cause  du  tout.  Ces  antipathies,  ces 
depSches  arrivanta  tout  propos  ont  gate  notre  conversation! 

Imbert  {distrait,  inquiet).  Madame,  je  ne  demande  pas 
mieux  .  .  .  seulement,  je  crains  d'etre  indiscret  .  .  . 

AJine.  Pas  le  moins  du  monde.  Asseyez-vous  la,  et 
racontez-moi  vos  impressions  de  la  soiree  d'hier.  La 
marquise  de  B  *  *  *  comment  la  trouvez-vous  ?  elle  avait 
une  bien  jolie  toilette  hier,  n'est-ce  pas  ? 

Imbert  {distrait).  Charmante,  oui,  jolie  toilette  .  .  .  elle 
est  tres  bien,  la  marquise. 

Aline.  Et  madame  de  K  *  *  *  comment  I'avez-vous 
trouvee  ? 

Imbert.  Comme  toilette,  voulez-vous  dire,  ou  com  me 
femme  1 

Aline.  L'une  et  I'autre,  puisque  la  toilette  d'une  femme 
montre  ce  qu'elle  est  elle-meme. 

Imhert.  Eh  bien,  franchement,  je  vous  dirai  que  j'ai 
trouve  la  toilette  un  peu  tapageuse. 

Aline.     Ah  !  vous  voyez  !  et  la  femme  aussi,  n'est-ce  pas  ? 

Imbert.  Cela,  je  ne  I'ai  pas  dit  .  .  .  mais  entin,  madame 
de  K  *  *  *  je  la  trouve  fatigante  .  .  .  elle  a  trop  d'esprit,  elle 
parle  trop,  elle  a  des  idees,  des  lubies  .  .  .  je  n'aime  pas  les 
femmes  qui  ont  des  idees. 

Aline.  Merci  !  si  vous  ne  recherchez  que  les  femmes 
nulles  !  II  faut  avouer  que  vous  etes  bien  peu  flatteur 
aujourd'hui ! 

Imbert.  Oh,  madame  !  vous  donnez  a  mes  paroles  un 
sens  bien  defavorable  .  .  .  je  voulais  seulement  dire  .  .  .  que 

— que \0n  entend  un  coup  de  sonnette. 

Ah,  mon  Dieu  ! 


12  LIndecis 

Aline.     Qu'avez-vous  ? 

Imhert.  Je  craignais  seulernent,  madame,  que  ce  coup 
de  sonnette  n'annon^at  quelque  visite,  qui  me  priverait  du 
plaisir  de  causer  avec  vous  en  tete-a-tete. 

Aline.  Oh,  il  ne  vient  gufere  de  visites  k  cette  heure-ci, 
avant  trois  heures — ce  n'est  pas  comme  a  Trouville,  ou  les 
visites  pleuvaient  toute  la  journee,  vous  rappelez-vous  ? 

Imhert.  Si  je  me  rappelle  !  je  crois  bien  !  et  ce  grand 
dadais  de  Ravignan,  qui  arrivait  toujours  avec  son  air  de 
commander  une  charge  ! 

Aline  (riant).  Mais  oui,  il  t^tait  impayable,  Ravignan  ! 
Savez-vous  que  j'ai  cru  I'apercevoir  hier  aux  Champs- 
Elysees  1 

Imhert.  Comment,  il  est  ici  ?  mais  qu'est-ce  qu'il  fait  a 
Paris  1  je  le  croyais  en  garnison  a  Tours  ! 

Aline.  A  Tours  1  non — son  regiment  est  a  Orleans,  mais 
cela  revient  au  meme. 

Imhert.  Sauf  pour  les  Orl^anais,  que  je  plains  de  tout 
mon  coeur  !  Pourquoi  abandonne-t-il  son  poste  alors,  pour 
venir  a  Paris  ? 

Aline.  Mais  c'est  qu'on  lui  aura  donne  un  mois  de 
conge,  voyons  !  Je  ne  sais  pas  pourquoi  vous  lui  en  voulez 
tant,  a  ce  pauvre  garc^on  ! 

hnhert.     D'abord,  parceque  je  le  trouve  insupportable .! 

Aline.     C'est  dt^ja  une  raison  .  .  .  et  apres  ? 

Irnhert.     Apres  .  .  .  oh,  il  y  en  a  bien  d'autres,  je  vous 


assure 


\^Louison  entre  avec  une  lettre,  qiCelle  donne  ci  Aline. 

Aline.  Ah,  voila  une  lettre  !  c'est  convenu,  n'est-te 
pas  ?  je  les  ouvre  toutes  !  ainsi  .  .  .  {Elle  brise  Venveloppe.) 

Imhert.  Je  suis  perdu  !  {il  reyarde  Aline  a  la  derobee) 
elle  a  Fair  etonne,  elle  rit,  elle  se  moque  de  m(,i  ! 

Aline.     A-t-on  jamais  rien  vu  de  pared  ? 

Imhert.     Ah ! 

Aline.     Mais  c'est  de  la  folie  ! 


Ulndecis  13 

Imhert.     De  la  folie  ? 

Aline.  Mais  oui,  de  la  pure  demence  !  Comment,  se 
poser  en  pretendant  !  une  connaissance  de  bains  de  mer  ! 

Imhert  (a  part).  Decidement,  je  suis  perdu  !  jen'ai  plus 
qu'a  me  retirer.  (Ilaut)  Madame  .  .  .  veuillez  pardonner 
a  mon  indiscretion  .  .  .  je  vous  ai  fait  une  visite  d'une 
longueur  deraisonnable  ... 

Aline  (riant).  Mais  non — restez  encore  un  instant, 
trouvez-moi  I'explication  de  cette  lettre  ridicule  ! 

Imbert  (ct  part).  Ridicule  !  Le  mot  est  un  peu  fort. 
{Haul)  Mais,  madame,  la  lettre,  il  me  semble,  doit  contenir 
elle-meme  son  explication — le  malheureux  qui  I'a  ecrit  a 
pense  peut-etre  que — que — il  ne  vous  etait  pas  absolument 
indiflerent  ...  la  bonte  que  vous  avez  eue  pour  lui  I'a  sans 
doute  encourage  a  vous  ouvrir  son  coeur  .  .   . 

Aline.  La  bonte  que  j'ai  eue  !  Voyons,  je  n'ai  pas 
ete  meilleure  pour  lui  que  pour  les  autres  !  vous  le  savez 
bien  vous-meme,  qu'au  fond  je  suis  de  votre  avis — je  le 
trouve  insupportable. 

Imhert  (saisi).  De  mon  avis !  Insupportable !  De 
grace,  de  qui  parlez-vous  done  1 

Aline  (e'tonne'e).  De  qui  je  parle  ?  mais  de  Ravignan, 
evidemment ! 

Imbert  {de  plus  en  plus  mystijie) .  De  Ravignan  ?  Com- 
ment— cette  lettre 

Aline.  Est  de  lui,  certainement  !  je  croyais  vous 
I'avoir  dit  tout  d'abord.  De  qui  done  voulez-vous  qu'elle 
soit? 

Imbert.  Madame,  je  ne  le  savais  pas  .  .  .  je  me  le 
demandais  .  .  .  d'un  inconnu,  peut-etre,  de  quelque  infor- 
tune  dont  la  triste  situation,  le  peu  d'espoir  aupres  de  vous 
ont  eveille  ma  pitie,  ma  compassion. 

Aline  (riant).  Mais  cet  inconnu,  cet  infortun^,  c'est 
tout  bonnement  Ravignan,  qui,  parce  que  je  lui  ai  accorde 
quelques  valses  au  casino,  parce  que  je  lui  ai  donne  une 


14  Ulnaeas 

po'gnde  de  main  a  la  gare,  se  croit  en  droit  de  me  demander 
ma  main  ! 

Imhert.     De  demander  votre  main  !     Eavignan !  .  .  . 

Aline.  Mais  oui  !  I'liistoire  est  divertissante,  n'est-ce 
pas  ?  C'est  tr^s  mal  de  ma  part  de  vous  I'avoir  dit  .  .  . 
mais  je  n'aurais  vraiment  pas  pu  me  priver  d'en  faire  la 
confidence  a  quelqu'un.  Vous  ne  trahirez  pas  le  secret, 
n'est-ce  pas  ?     Je  puis  compter  sur  vous  % 

Imhert.  Madame,  je  serai  d'une  discretion  a  toute 
epreuve,  je  vous  assure. 

Ali'^e.  J'en  suis  convaincue.  Je  voudrais  bien  vous 
montrer  la  lettre — c'est  un  chef-d'oeuvre  !  mais  ce  serait 
bien  mal,  n'est-ce  pas  ?  Cependant  {die  relit  la  lettre)  .  .  . 
tiens  !  voila  un  post-scriptum  que  je  n'avais  pas  vu. 
{Riant)  Oh !  que  cela  lui  ressemble  !  c'est  lui-meme  !  '  Si 
vous  me  permettez,  madame,  de  vous  annoncer  ma  visite 
pour  cette  apres-midi,  j'ose  esperer  que  vous  voudrez  bien 
me  faire  I'honneur  de  me  recevoir.' 

Imhert.  Comment,  il  va  venir  ici  !  II  ne  manquait 
plus  que  cela! 

Aline.  C'est  le  plus  correct  des  hommes  .  .  .  vous  voyez, 
il  ne  me  fait  pas  une  visite  sans  m'envoyer  un  document  a 
I'avance  pour  me  prevenir  de  son  arrivee.  Tout  ce  qu'il  fait 
est  compasse,  refl^chi — je  suis  sure  que  s'il  se  trouvait 
empeche  par  cause  ou  autre  de  se  presenter,  qu'il  m'en^ er- 
rait  une  depeche  pour  m'annoncer  un  quart  d'heure  de 
retard  !     Tiens  !  j'ysonge  !     Cette  depeche !  .  .  , 

Imhert  {trouhle).     Cette  depeche  .  .  .  madame? 

Aline.     Vous  ne  voyez  pas  de  qui  elle  est? 

Imhert  {de  plus  en  jjIus  ahuri).  Mais  si,  madame  .  .  . 
mais  si  ...  en  effet  .  .  . 

Aline.     Cette  depeche  ne  peut  etre  que  de  Ravignan  I 

Imhert.     Comment,  la  depeche  est  de  Ravignan  aussi  ? 

Aline.  Evidemment,  ce  ne  peut  ttre  que  lui  qui  I'a 
envoyde ! 


VIndc'cts  1 5 

Imhert.  Ah,  trts  bien  !  mais  c'est  une  mine  de  docu- 
mentation alors  que  ce  garcon  ! 

Aline.  Oh,  que  cela  lui  ressemble  encore  !  Je  vois 
d'ici  ce  qui  est  arrive  !  {n'echaitffant  peu  d  pen,  a  we^ure 
qu'elle  jxirle.)  II  lui  a  fallu  d'abord  trois  mois  pour  se 
decider  a  m'envoyer  cette  lettre — puis,  la  lettre  expedite,  il 
s'est  ravise — il  a  pense  quil  lui  fallait  encore  trois  mois  de 
reflexion,  sur  quoi  il  a  envoy ^  le  telegramme,  pour  m'em- 
pecher  de  lire  la  lettre — eh  bien,  je  vous  dirai  que  je 
trouve  cela  un  proctkle  assez  peu  galant,  et  qui  certes  n'est 
pas  fait  pour  gagner  les  ca'Uis. 

Imbert. .  Mais,  madame,  je  vous  ferai  seulement  observer 
qu'apres  tout  ce  n'est  peut-etre  pas  lui  qui  a  envoye 

Aline  (impatientee).  Comment  done  !  il  n'y  a  que  lui 
pour  faire  des  b^tises  pareilles ! 

Imhert.     Ah  .  .  .  permettez  .  .  , 

Aline.  Du  reste,  je  vous  supplie  de  ne  point  prendre  sa 
defense  a  present,  vous  qui  I'arrangiez  d'une  si  belle  faqon 
tout  a  Iheure  !  d'autant  plus  que  ce  serait  absolument 
inutile,  car  je  vous  affirme  que  pour  rien  au  monde  je  ne 
lui  pardonnerai  ce  qu'il  a  fait  aujourd'hui  envers  moi.  II 
n'a  qu'a  se  presenter  ici— il  verra  comme  il  sera  re9U  I  ou 
plut6t  comme  il  ne  le  sera  pas — un  homme  capable  d'agir 
de  la  sorte  ne  remettra  plus  les  pieds  chez  moi. 

Imhert  {cipart,  sessnyantle  front).  Que  vais-je  devenir, 
mon  Dieu,  que  vais-je  devenir  ? 

Louison   entre. 

Louison.  Madame,  c'est  monsieur  le  vicomte  de 
Rari^nan,  qui  demande  si  madame  veut  bien  le  recevo^ir. 

Aline  (sechement).     Non. 

Louison  (surjyrise).  Madame  ne  le  recoit  pas  ?  (A  voix 
basse,  se  rapprochant  d'Aline)  Monsieur  le  vicomte  est  la 
.  .  .  dans  Fantichambre  .  .  . 


1 6  Vlnd^ds 

Aline  (tr^s  haul).  Dites-lui  que  je  n'y  suis  pas — que  je 
regrette  bien  de  ne  pas  y  etre. 

Louison.     Bien,  madame.  \Elle  sort. 

Imhert  {a  part).  Quelle  situation,  mon  Dieu  !  comment 
sortir  de  la  1 

Louison  rentre. 

Louison.  Monsieur  le  vicomte  fait  dire  a  madame, 
qu'il  repassera  plus  tard,  pour  voir  si  madame  veut  avoir 
la  bonte  de  le  recevoir,  et  qu'il  aura  en  tous  les  cas  I'hon- 
neur  d'^crire  a  madame  ce  soir. 

Aline.     C'est  bien,  [Louison  sort. 

Un  bon  averti  en  vaut  deux  !  Je  suis  vraiment  ridicule  de 
me  facher  pour  si  peu,  au  lieu  d'en  rire  !  mais,  aussi,  con- 
venez  que  ce  personnage  s'est  conduit  a  mon  egard  d'une 
fa9on  quelque  peu  singuliere. 

Imbert.     C'est  possible,  mais  enfin  .  .  , 

Aline.  Mais  enfin  !  demandez-vous  s'il  vous  serait 
jamais  venu  a  I'idee  de  faire  vous-meme  ce  qu'il  a  fait  ! 
non,  n'est-ce  pas  1  vous  reconnaissez  que  vous  en  seriez 
tout  a  fait  incapable. 

Imbert  (de  plus  en  plus  embarrasse).  Madame,  je  ne 
dis  pas  .  .  .  miis  cependant  .  .  .  voici  comment  je  m'ex- 
pliquerai  la  chose,  moi.  Le  pauvre  gargon,  follement 
amoureux  de  vous 

Aline.  Follement  ?  ou  prenez-vous  cela  ?  dites  plutot 
methodiquement,  flegmatiquement  ! 

Imhert.  Soit,  comme  vous  voudrez — mais  amoureux 
enfin,  n'importe  comment,  se  decide  a  vous  eciire.  II 
envoie  la  lettre,  puis  il  reflechit  trop  tard  que  la  parole 
ecrite  ne  serait  peut-etre  pas  assez  convaincante,  assez 
irresistible — il  vous  envoie  done  une  depeche  pour  vous  dire 
de  ne  pas  ouvrir  cette  lettre,  qu'il  ne  croyait  pas  digne  de 
plaider  sa  cause,  puis  il  est  accouru  ici  pour  se  jeter  a  vos 
pieds. 


LIndecis  \J 

Aline  {rianC).  Qui  n'ont  pas  voulu  de  sa  prostration  !  je 
suis  vraiment  fachee  d'avoir  fait  t^chouer  cette  belle  coin- 
binaison  !  mais  que  voulez-vous  %  je  n'ai  pas,  comma  vous, 
I'imagination  d'un  pofete — jamais  je  n'aurais  pense  a  recon- 
struire  de  mon  propre  fonds  le  travail  qui,  seloii  vous,  s'est 
op^re  dans  le  cerveau  de  ce  pauvre  vicomte  !  dureste,je  ne 
I'aurais  jamais  cru  capable  d'une  passion  comme  celle  que 
vous  lui  attribuez. 

Imhert.  Mon  Dieu,  madarae,  ce  n'est  qu'une  hypothese, 
une  supposition  que  je  pose  la  .  .  . 

Aline.  Evidemment,  mais  cependant  je  crois  qu'elle  est 
juste  .  .  .  je  commence  meme  a  regretter  mon  peu  de  cour- 
toisie  .  .  .  j'ai  envie  de  lui  ecrire  un  petit  mot  aimable,  pour 
lui  faire  mes  excuses,  et  lui  dire  que  je  le  recevrai  demain. 
Cela  ne  m'engage  a  rien,  apres  tout. 

\_Elle  se  dirge  vers  la  table  h  ecrire,  aufond. 

Imhert  {a  part).  Ah,  je  suis  alld  trop  loin  !  si  cette 
lettre  est  envoyee,  le  vicomte  Adendra  tomber  ici,  et  il  en 
resultera  une  explication  des  plus  embarrassantes  pour 
moi.  Que  faire,  cependant  ?  je  ne  peux  pas  laisser  la  respon- 
sabilite  de  ce  malheureux  t^legramme  a  mon  rival  .  .  .  ce  ne 
serait  pas  d'un  galanthomme  .  .  .  il  faudra  bienque  j'en  aie 
le  coeur  net,  et  que  je  fasse  mon  aveu.  Mais  cependant, 
I'idee  de  me  sacritier  pour  cet  espece  de  lieutenant  m'est 
souverainerhent  deplaisante  !  aussi,  pourquoi  est-il  venu  se 
fourrer  a  Paris  en  ce  moment,  pour  m'embrouiller  toutes 
mes  affaires?  II  aurait  bien  mieux  fait  de  rester  a  Orleans. 
Charmante  ville,  Orleans  .  .  .  il  y  a  des  {cherchant) — des— 
seminaires  .  .  ,  des  archeveques  .  .  .  des  statues  de  Jeanne 
d'Arc,  quoi !  toute  espece  d'agrements  de  province,  enfin  ! 

Aline  (se  levant).  Voila  .  .  .  je  vais  dire  qu'on  lui  porte 
ce  billet  .  .  .  cela  me  reconciliera  avec  moi-meme. 

Imhert.     Mais,  madame  .  .   .  un  instant  .  .  . 

Aline  (surprise).     Qu'est-ce  que  c'est  1 

Imbert  {hesitant,  con/us).     Madame,  c'est  peut-etre  tres 

c 


1 8  Llnd^cis 

indiscret  ce  que  je  vais  vous  dire  la  .  .  .  mais  la  confidence 
que  vous  avez  daigne  me  faire  m'encourage  a  penser  que 
vous  ne  m'en  voudrez  pas  .  .  . 

Aline  {de  plus  en  plus  surprise).  Mais  parlez — qu'y 
a-t-il  done  ? 

Imbert.  Est-ce  que  vous  auriez  .  .  .  c'est-a-dire,  vous 
n'avezpas,  n'est-cepas,  Fintention  d'accueillir  favorablement 
la  demande  de  monsieur  de  Ravignan  ? 

Aline  (riant  aux  (Eclats).  Mais  non,  voyons  !  Pour  qui 
me  prenez  vous  1 

Imbert  (soulage',  a  part).  Grace  a  Dieu  !  (l/aut)  Mais 
alors  ne  craignez-vous  pas  que  ce  billet  aimable  ne  fasse 
renaitre  en  son  coeur  des  esperances  .  .  .  qui  n'en  seront 
que  plus  cruellement  deques  ? 

Aline.     Vous  croyez  1 
■    Imbert.     J 'en  suis  sur. 

Aline  (reftechissant).  Je  ferais  peut-etre  mieux  alors 
de  ne  rien  lui  envoyer^d'attendre  seulement  qu'il  repasse 
ici. 

Imbert.  Je  crois  en  effet  que  c'est  ce  qu'il  aurait  de 
plus  prudent. 

\ Aline  decJiire  la  lettre,  jette  les  morceaiix,  se  remet  a 
la  2>^tite  table  au  jyremier  ^;Zaw,  et  rejyrend  son 
ouvrage. 

Imbert  (pendant  ce  temps,  b,  part).  Voila  au  moins  du 
temps  de  gagn^  .  .  .  il  s'agit  maintenant  de  me  tirer  d'afFaire. 
Ah,  maudite  d^peche,  va  !  Aussi,  pourquoi  faut-il  qu'on 
vous  plante  un  bureau  telegraphique  a  chaque  coin  de  rue, 
pour  entrainer  les  passants  a  leur  perte  ?  C'est  inique,  cela 
ne  devrait  pas  etre. 

Aline  {riant  aux  eclats).     Non,  vraiment  .  .  .  cette  liis- 

oire  est  trop  drole  !  Certes,  quand  j'ai  aper^u  Ravignan 

hier,   qui   arpentait   les  Champs-Elysees,  guinde,  correct, 

corame  d'habitude,  jamais  je  ne  me  serais  dout^e  que  nous 

passerions  cet  apres-midi  a  jious  occuper  de  lui  ! 


Lhidecis  19 

Imbert.  C'est vrai qu'iln'envaut pas prdcis^mentla peine! 

Aline.  Et  cependant  .  .  .  savez-vous  ?  il  me  plait  au- 
jourd'hui  plus  qu'il  ne  I'a  jamais  fait  .  .  .  car,  si  les  choses  se 
sont  passees  comme  vous  le  dites,  cette  histoire  de  lettres, 
de  telegrammes,  quoiqu'elle  soit,  bien  entendu,  absurde  et 
ridicule  au  possible 

Irnbert  (a  part).     Mille  fois  merci. 

Aline.  Montre  cependant  qu'il  n'est  pas  toujours  aussi 
impassible  qu'il  en  a  I'air  .  .  .  que,  sous  I'influence  d'une 
veritable  Amotion,  lui  aussi  est  capable  de  se  troubler,  de 
se  laisser  porter  a  des  mouvements  naifs  et  passionnes, 
qui  font  preuve  d'un  coeur  sensible  et  aimant. 

Irnbert  (joyeux).  Comment,  madame  !  vous  vous  sentez 
alois  portee  a  I'indulgence,  a  des  dispositions  favorables 
envers  celui  qui  a  pu  agir  de  la  sorte  1 

Aline.  A  des  dispositions  favorables,  non  ...  a  I'indul- 
gence,-oui  .  .  .  mais  rien  de  plus — le  pauvre  Ravignan  ne 
saurait  m'en  inspirer  davantage. 

Imbert.  Ah  !  je  n'y  tiens  plus,  madame  .  .  .  vos  paroles 
m'encouragent  a  vous  faire  un  aveu  que  je  ne  peux  plus 
retenir  .  .  .  celui  qui  vous  a  envoye  ce  telegramme,  c'est  moi 
— moi-meme,  et  non  pas  Ravignan  ! 

Aline  {se  levant  vivement).  Comment !  que  dites-vous  1 
c'est  vous  1 

Imbert  (avec  une  agitation  toujours  croissante).  Oui, 
madame,  oui — oui !  c'est  moi !  moi,  qui,  ainsi  que  vous  I'avez 
bien  dit,  suis  absurde,  ridicule,  mais  naif  et  passionne 
aussi  .  .  .  moi  qui  ai  eu  de  ces  mouvements  qui  font  preuve 
d'un  coeur  sensible  et  aimant — moi  qui  vous  aime  follement, 
qui  vous  adore,  qui  vous  ai  dent  une  lettre  que  je  n'ai  pas 
crue  capable  de  vous  persuader,  qui  vous  ai  ensuite  envoye 
une  depeche  pour  vous  prier  de  ne  pas  I'ouvrir,  et  qui  su 
enfin  accouru  ici  pour  plaider  moi-meme  ma  cause,  et 
implorer  a  vos  pieds  votre  misericorde  ! 

[Ilsejette  aux  pieds  d' Aline. 


20  Llnd^cis 

Aline.  Decid^ment,  il  faut  etre  pofete  pour  savoir  se 
tirer  d'embarras  avec  des  figures  de  rhetorique  !  mais  qu'est- 
ce  qui  me  prouvera  que  toutes  vos  declarations  de  tout  a 
riieure  ne  sont  pas  ^galement  dues  au  souffle  de  I'esprit 
po^tique  ? 

Louison  entre  avec  une  lettre — Imhert  s'en  empare 
vivement,  et  la  donne  ct,  Aline.     Louison  sort. 

Imhert.  Voici  !  cette  lettre  vous  le  prouvera,  j'espfere  .  .  . 
et  si,  apres  I'avoir  lue,  vous  doutez  encore  de  moi,  accordez- 
nioi  seulement  le  temps,  madame,  je  saurai  bien  vous  con- 
vaincre  de  la  vdrite  de  mon  amour  ! 

Louison  ventre. 

Jjouison.  C'est  monsieur  le  vicomte  de  Ravignan  qui 
demande  si  madame  veut  bien  le  recevoir. 

Aline.     Faites  entre r.  [Louison  sort. 

Imhert  (inquiet).     Comment,  vous  le  recevez  1 
Aline.     Mais   oui — a   nous    deux   nous    saurons   bien 
reconduire  ! 

[JElle  tend  la  main  h  Imhert,  qui  la  baise  avec 
transport.  On  baisse  vivement  la  toile  au  moment 
ou  le  vicomte  est  cense  entrer. 


21 


A   CHANCE  INTEEVIEW 

COMEDIETTA   IN   ONE  ACT. 

CHARACTERS. 
Colonel  Perceval.  Lady  Rockmount.  A  Maid. 

Scene, — Mrs.  Greville's  draiving-room.     Books,  &c.,  on 
table ;  clock  on  chimney-piece. 

Maid  (showing  in  Colonel  Perceval).  I  will  tell  Mrs. 
Greville  you  are  here,  sir.     She  is  dressing. 

Col.  Perceval.     Dressing  ? 

Maid.     Yes,  sir.     She  is  going  to  a  ball.      [^Exit  Maid. 

Col.  Perceval.  Dressing  to  go  to  a  ball,  at  this  time  ? 
Why,  it  is  only  twenty  minutes  to  ten.  She  will  be  two 
hours  too  early — unless  she  means  to  dance  a  pas  seul 
before  the  other  people  come.  What  a  bore  that  she  should 
be  going  out  just  this  evening  !  It  never  occurred  to  me 
that  that  was  likely,  as  her  daughter  is  away  and  she  has 
no  one  to  take.  \^Enter  Maid. 

Maid.  Mrs.  Greville  will  be  ready  in  a  quarter  of  an 
hour,  sir.     She  is  sorry  to  keep  you  waiting. 

Col.  Perceval.  Oh,  pray  tell  her  not  to  hurry.  It  doesn't 
signify  in  the  least.  \^Exit  Maid. 

Col.  Perceval.  Not  signify  indeed  !  It  does  signify 
most  particularly.  That  was  one  of  the  idiotic  things  one 
says  by  way  of  saying  something.  Well,  I  must  just  make 
up  my  mind  to  wait  patiently  for  another  quarter  of  an 
hour.     After  all,  when  I  wrote  to  Mrs.  Greville  saying  that 


22  A  Chance  Interview 

I  would  look  in  this  evening  about  ten  o'clock,  she  probably 
didn't  grasp  the  fact  that  I  should  appear  twenty  minutes 
earlier — how  should  she  1  After  all,  I  can't  expect  her  to 
be  as  anxious  as  I  am  for  the  interview— and  yet — report 
says Report  is  a  fool  !  (  Walks  about  the  room :  re- 
flects.) I  don't  like  it.  I  don't  at  all  like  having  these 
additional  twenty  minutes  for  reflection  !  and  it  is  very  odd 
that,  though  I  have  had  the  last  six  months  to  consider  the 
situation,  it  has  never  presented  as  many  aspects  as  it  is 
suddenly  developing  at  this  moment.  It  is  a  foolish  plan, 
an  embarrassing  plan,  for  a  man  to  have  to  come  and  ask 
formally  for  the  hand  of  his  future  bride.  In  fact,  I  had 
no  idea  how  embarrassing  it  would  be.  It  is  tremendous— 
quite  tremendous  !  It  is  absurd,  I  admit,  to  be  so  agitated. 
Here  am  I,  an  Indian  officer  of  some  renown,  if  I  may  be 
permitted  to  say  so,  trembling,  positively  trembling,  at  the 
tho.ught  of  asking  for  the  hand  of  little  Mary  Greville,  to 
whom  I  used  to  bring  sugar  plums  fifteen  years  ago — quak- 
ing at  the  idea  of  an  interview  on  the  subject  with  her 
mother,  dear,  mild  Mrs.  Greville,  with  whom  I  used  to  dine 
every  Sunday  before  I  went  to  India.  Yes,  I  must  admit, 
I  am  as  foolishly  agitated  as  I  was  that  day  when  I  went 
to  Kate  Vernon's  house  on  a  like  errand,  and  found  Lord 
Rockmount's  carriage  at  the  door — that  well-appointed 
brougham,  which  I  verily  believe  was  as  powerful  an  advo- 
cate of  his  suit  as  Lord  Rockmount  himself.  But  what  is 
the  good  of  reviving  these  memories  ?  Lady  Rockmount, 
I  dare  say,  has  been  happy — and,  as  she  has  lived  in  London 
and  I  in  India,  our  paths  have,  fortunately  perhaps,  lain 
apart.  When  I  returned  a  year  ago  I  heard  she  was  in  the 
country,  in  mourning  for  her  husband.  Well,  well  !  her 
image  has  faded  from  my  heart  now,  and  another  has  taken 
its  place — ^I  can  afford  to  smile  at  the  infatuation  of  my 
youth.  Yes,  Kate  was  delightful  to  be  in  love  with, 
certa^ily — exactly  the  woman  to  be  in  love  with,  but  per- 


A  Chance  Interview  23 

liaps,  after  all,  not  the  woman  to  marry.  As  a  wife  she 
might  be  less  satisfactory.  Now  Mary  Greville — dear  little 
Mary  !  so  gentle,  so  sympathetic,  so  domestic,  so  exactly 
the  kind  of  woman  to  find  smiling  at  one's  fire-side — always 
the  same,  no  moods,  no  flightiness — a  woman  who  would 
be  sure  always  to  think  her  husband  right !  that  is  my  idea 
of  married  happiness.  Whereas  Kate  !  !  (Smiles  at  the 
recollection.)  No  one  could  expect  that  of  her,  certainly. 
No  one  could  imagine  that  she  would  be  always  the  same, 
with  her  impressionable  nature  vibrating  to  every  passing 
wind  of  fancy,  '  full  of  tears,  full  of  smiles,'  an  endless 
variety  of  aspects — now  full  of  brilliancy  and  wit,  now  of 
tender  melancholy.  Heigho  !  Well  (rousing  liimself),  that 
was  years  ago,  and  now  is  now,  to-day,  another  time 
altogether — mustn't  mix  them  up!  (Walks  about.)  Not 
ten  minutes  to  ten  yet  !  I'm  sure  that  clock  must  want 
regulating — its  short  hand  doesn't  know  what  its  long  hand 
is  doing.  It  must  be  at  least  a  quarter  of  an  hour  since  the 
maid  came  in.  Extraordinary  how  many  quarters  of  an 
hour  it  takes  women  to  dress  !  It  has  been  calculated,  I 
believe,  that  a  woman  spends  one-fifth  of  her  life  in  doing  her 
hair.  No  wonder  she  doesn't  succeed  in  doing  much  else. 
Hark  !  I  hear  some  one  coming.  (Listens.)  No,  that  is 
not  Mrs.  Greville's  voice,  surely — that  gentle  little  woman 
never  spoke  in  those  ringing  tones  !  [^Afaid  opens  door. 

Lady  Rochmount  (speaking  outside).  Yes,  I  know  I 
am  much  earlier  than  I  had  meant  to  be. 

Col.  Perceval  (starts).     What !     That  voice 

Lady  Rockinount  (still  outside).  Tell  Mrs.  Greville  that 
I  had  a  box  for  the  opera  sent  me,  and  I  thought  it  might 
be  pleasanter  to  give  up  the  ball,  as  it  is  so  hot  to-night. 
(Enters.)  So  I  came  early  on  the  chance  of  her  being  ready. 
But  it  doesn't  matter  at  all.    I  shall  be  iquite  happy  waiting. 

Maid.     Yes,  my  lady.  [Exit  Maid. 

J^ady  jRockmount.     Colonel  Perceval ! 


24  A  CJiance  Interview 

Col.  Perceval.     Lady  Rockmount  ! 

Lady  Rockmount  (recovering  herself).  This  is  a  most 
unexpected  pleasure. 

Col.  Perceval.     It  is  indeed. 

Lady  Bockmount.  How  long  is  it  since  we  have  met  1 
Six  years — seven  years  ? 

Col.  Perceval.     More  like  ten,  I'm  afraid. 

Lady  Rockmount.  Ten  !  Is  it  really  ?  Ah,  I  have 
such  a  shocking  memory  !     I  never  can  remember  things. 

Col.  Perceval  (aside).     A  most  enviable  gift  ! 

Lady  Rockmount.  But  what  an  extraordinary  coinci- 
dence that  we  should  meet  here  !  Ha  !  ha !  It  makes  me 
laugh  to  think  of  your  face  of  utter  stupefaction  when  I 
walked  in.  I  don't  wonder.  I  was  just  as  amazed  to  see 
you.  You  were  the  very  last  person  in  my  thoughts  at  that 
moment. 

Col.  Perceval  (aside).     I  wish  I  could  say  the  same  ! 

I^ady  Rockmount.  I  was  to  call  for  Mrs.  Greville,  to 
take  her  to  Lady  Silverton's  ball — then  a  box  turned  up  for 
the  opera,  and  as  I  am  very  tired,  having  been  to  a  matinee 
and  two  '  at  homes '  since  luncheon,  I  thought  it  would  be 
pleasanter  to  give  up  the  ball. 

Col.  Perceval.     I  see. 

Lady  Rockmount.  So  I  came  round  earlier,  on  the 
chance  of  Mrs.  Greville  being  ready,  but  apparently  she  is 
not. 

Col.  Perceval.  No.  She  will  be  ready  in  a  quarter  of 
an  hour,  so  the  maid  tells  me. 

Lady  Rockmount.  A  quarter  of  an  hour  !  Oh,  well, 
that  is  not  very  long.  We  can  endure  existence  for  that 
time,  I  dare  say.     What  has  brought  you  here  to-night  ? 

Col.  Perceval  (embarrassed).  Oh,  nothing.  I  am  here 
casually — that  is,  I  have  a  sort  of  appointment  with  Mrs. 

Greville — a  half-appointment  at  least — and — and 

\^l*auses. 


A  Chance  Interview  25 

Lady  Rockmount.  Then  a  half-appointment,  I  presume, 
is  when  one  person  comes  and  the  other  doesn't  1 

Col.  Perceval.  The  fact  is,  I  had  no  answer  from  Mrs. 
Greville.     I  wrote  to  tell  her  I  should  be  here  at  ten 

Lady  Rockmount.  And  then  for  greater  security  you 
came  on  beforehand  to  announce  your  arrival  !  for  it  is 
only  five  minutes  to  ten  now,  and  I  am  sure  you  have  been 
here  at  least  a  quarter  of  an  hour. 

Col.  Perceval.     What  makes  you  think  so  1 

Lady  Rockmount.  Because  I  know  exactly  what  a  man 
looks  like  who  has  been  waiting  impatiently — I  could  tell 
by  your  expression  when  the  door  was  opened. 

Col.  Perceval.  Yes,  I've  no  doubt  I  looked  uncom- 
monly like  a  fool — I  feel  like  one  too. 

Lady  Rockmount.  Do  you  1  I  am  so  sorry  !  I've  been 
told  it  is  a  horrid  sensation. 

Col.  Perceval  (desperately).  I  think  I  won't  wait  any 
longer  now.  Lady  Rockmount — it  will  be  very  good  of  you 
to  give  a  message  for  me  to  Mrs.  Greville,  to  explain  that 
— that — I  have  had  to  go  away.  You  will  tell  her  how 
it  is. 

Lady  Rockmount.     Certainly,  if  I  knew.     How  is  it  ? 

Col.  Perceval.  Would  you  say  that  I  have  suddenly 
recollected  an  appointment  I  am  obliged  to  keep — with — 
with — a  man  at  the  club,  and  that  I  hope  to  be  more 
fortunate  another  time  1 

Lady  Rockmount.  To  be  more  fortunate  !  you  mean 
that  another  time  you  won't  remember  it  1 

Col.  Perceval.     No,  no,  I  don't  mean  that — I  mean 

Lady  Rockmount.  You  mean,  that  when  you  found  you 
had  to  wait  in  the  company  of  some  one  else,  and  that  some 
one  your  humble  servant,  your  fortitude  was  not  equal  to 
the  occasion,  and  you  fled,  leaving  the  unwelcome  interloper 
in  possession  of  the  field,  to  explain  your  absence  as  best 
she  can  !    Ha !  ha  !     Very  well,  I  will  tell  her,  never  fear. 


26  A  Chance  Interview 

Col.  Perceval.  Lady  Rockmount  !  You  attribute 
sentiments  to  me 

Lady  Rockmount.  Now,  now,  my  good  friend  !  I  am 
not  as  blind  as  a  mole,  nor  do  I  share  its  propensity  for 
burrowing  to  the  foundation  of  things — neither  do  I  go  to 
the  other  extreme,  like  a  fly,  which  I  believe  can  see  in 
every  direction  all  round  its  head  at  once,  more  or  less  :  but 
this  much  of  vision  I  have,  that  when  something  is  stand- 
ing bolt  upright  in  my  path  I  am  conscious  of  its  existence — 
I  can  see  it  is  there  ! 

Col.  Perceval  (preoccupied,  looking  at  door).  Very  ob- 
servant of  you  ;  you  show  an  acquaintance  with  natural 
history  which  is  most  edifying  !  It  is  a  fly,  you  say,  that 
can  see  all  round  it  ? 

Lady  Rockmount.  Yes :  the  common  house  fly,  I  be- 
lieve. We  cannot  wonder,  therefore,  that  it  should  be  a 
little  flurried  and  undecided  in  manner  sometimes,  for  I 
find  even  my  limited  powers  of  vision  occasionally  some- 
what bewildering. 

Col.  Perceval.  I've  no  doubt  you  must,  if  they  carry 
you  astray  in  the  way  they  have  this  morning. 

Lady  Rockmount.  Carried  me  astray  ?  in  what  way  ? 
They  have  carried  me  straight  to  the  point,  I  assure 
you.  I  have  grasped  the  situation  already  in  all  its 
bearings. 

Col.  Perceval  (aside).     The  deuce  you  have  ! 

Lady  Rockmount.  1  come  in  casually  to  wait  for  Mrs. 
Greville,  and  find  you  here,  in  an  even  greater  state  of 
agitation  than  a  man  is  generally  in  when  he  is  being  kept 
waiting,  which  is  saying  a  good  deal  !  So  I  perceive  at 
once  that  you  must  have  something  very  important  to  say 
to  your  hostess.  [Col.  Perceval  is  going  to  interrupt  her : 
she  stops  him.]  No,  no,  my  dear  friend  !  it  is  of  no  use 
your  telling  me  you  haven't — it  would  not  carry  conviction 
at  all !    And,  as  I  am  sure  Mrs.  Greville  would  rather  listen 


A  Chance  Interview  27 

to  what  you  have  to  say  than  to  the  last  act  of  the  '  Afri- 
caine,'  which  is  really  a  very  dull  affair — with  that  upas 
tree  on  all  the  time,  and  the  rest  of  the  characters  gradually 
collapsing  round  it— by  far  the  best  thing  is  that  I  should 
retire  gracefully — which  I  shall  be  very  glad  to  do,  for  I 
am  tired  out  already — and  leave  you  in  possession  of  the 
held,  to  have  your  chat  with  Mrs.  Greville — your  momentous 
interview,  I  mean  ! 

Col.  Perceval.  No,  no — I  could  not  think  of  such  a 
thing.  I  assure  you  that  what  I  have  to  say  to  Mrs. 
Greville  will  keep  quite  well  till  another  time. 

Lady  Rockmount  (smiling  satirically).     In — deed  ! 

Col.  Perceval.  I  will  go  away  and  leave  you  with  Mrs. 
Greville,  to  go  to  the  opera  together. 

Lady  Rockmount.  No,  no — it  is  too  absurd  !  you  shall 
not  go,  /  will. 

Col.  Perceval.  No,  I  wouldn't  make  you  go  for  the 
world — /  will. 

Lady  Rockmount.  Certainly  not — I  couldn't  allow  it. 
After  all,  you  came  here  first. 

Col.  Perceval.     Yes,  but  you  came  in  second !  I  mean 

Lady  Rockmount.  Ha!  ha!  Your  mind  has  run  into 
its  usual  channel,  the  sporting  one.  The  winning-post, 
then,  is  Mrs.  Greville  1  Curious  race  this,  in  which  the 
competitors  arrive  first  and  the  winning-post  comes  in 
aftsrwards. 

Col.  Perceval.  You  are  pleased  to  be  very  light-hearted, 
Lady  Rockmount — I  am  sorry  I  cannot  stay  to  enjoy  a  good 
laugh  with  you. 

Ijady  Rockmount.     You    obstinate   man  !     You    shall 

not  go,  I  declare  ;  but  stop ( With  a  sudden  idea) 

Why  should  either  of  us  go  1  Why  should  we  not  both 
remain  ? 

Col.  Perceval  (taken  aback).  Why  not?  Because  — 
because 


28  A  Chance  Interview 

Lady  Rockraount.  Because  you  would  rather  not  have 
me  there  when  you  are  asking  Mrs.  Gi*eville  for  her  daugh- 
ter's hand. 

Col.  Perceval.  Lady  Rockmount  !  You  certainly  do 
jump  to  conclusions  in  the  most  rapid  way. 

Lady  Rockmount.  Now,  now — take  care  what  you  are 
going  to  say  !  remember  the  story  of  Tommy.  Tommy  said, 
'  I  have  no  father  nor  mother  :  yet  I  am  not  an  orphan.' 
What  was  Tommy  1 

Col.  Perceval  (exasperated).  How  should  I  know  ?  I 
never  guessed  one  of  those  things  in  my  life.  His  great- 
grandson,  I  suppose  ! 

Lady  Rockmount.  Ha!  ha!  no.  The  answer  is,  Tommy 
is — a  liar  !  The  word  is  forcible,  I  admit,  for  polite  society — 
but  it  expresses  the  desired  meaning,  which  is  a  great 
thing.  So  let  Tommy  be  a  warning  to  you,  and  don't  con- 
tradict me  when  I  tell  you  you  have  come  here  for  a  mo- 
mentous interview.     Well,  I  will  help  you. 

Col.  Perceval  (staggered).     You  1 

Lady  Rockmount  (calmly).  Certainly.  Does  that  sur- 
prise you  1     Why  shouldn't  I  ? 

Col.  Perceval.     Only — because — because 

Lady  Rockmount.  Because  you  think  that  kind  of 
thing  is  better  done  d,  deux  1  Quite  a  fallacy,  I  assure  you. 
Nowadays  everyone  helps  on  these  occasions  :  the  father 
helps,  the  mother  helps,  the  daughter  helps  herself — often 
to  a  very  desirable  morsel,  ha!  ha  ! 

Col.  Perceval  (with  an  effort).  Lady  Rockmount,  you 
must  forgive  me  if  I  say  that  these  pleasantries  are  a  little 
painful  to  me.  I  am,  as  you  have  guessed,  in  a  situation  of 
peculiar  delicacy. 

Lady  Rockmount.  Come,  come,  don't  let  us  exag- 
gerate the  horrors  of  it.  It  isn't  so  very  peculiar,  you 
know,  after  all.  Every  man  I  know  goes  through  it  once 
a  month  on  an  average,  till  one  day  he  does  it  so  success- 


A  Chance  Interview  29 

fully  that  there  is  no  occasion  to  repeat  the  experiment — 
in  other  words,  he  proposes  to  some  one  who  accepts  him, 
and  there  is  an  end  of  it  !  and  of  him  too,  as  far  as  his 
friends  are  concerned. 

Col.  Perceval  (trying  to  speak  with  dignity).  Your 
knowledge  of  the  world,  I  know,  is  great,  but  it  is  appa- 
rently so  vast  that  it  is  unwieldy.  I  must  beg  to  tell  you 
that  this  is  the  first  time  in  my  life  that  I  have  ever  found 
myself  in  what  you  consider  this  very  ordinary,  common- 
place situation,  but  which  appears  to  me,  a — an — unsophis- 
ticated Indian  officer  \Lady  Rockmount  smiles],  a  some- 
what momentous  crisis.  You  must  forgive  me,  therefore, 
if  I  am  more  agitated  by  it  than  other  of  your  more  accom- 
plished friends. 

Lady  Rockmotint.  My  dear  friend,  you  are  positively 
scathing  in  your  wrath  !  I  feel  crushed — I  assure  you, 
absolutely  crushed  to  the  ground,  and  am  only  able  to  lift 
my  head  for  one  last  expiring  glance  at  the  phenomenal 
person  before  me,  who  has  actually  reached  the  age  of — • 
thirty-nine,  shall  we  say  ? — without  ever  ha\'ing  risked  his 
fate  on  a  woman's  caprice.  [Col.  Perceval  turns  away  im- 
patiently.] Do  tell  me  how  it  happened,  as  they  say  in  the 
*  Arabian  Nights.'  You  know  the  '  Arabian  Nights '  ?  No  ? 
A  pity — such  pleasant  reading  !  though  I  always  wonder 
why  it  is  necessary  in  them  when  some  personage  in  the 
story — a  street  porter,  let  us  say — who  turns  out  to  be  the 
one-eyed  son  of  a  king,  or  more  frequently  the  son  of  a 
one-eyed  king — it  comes  to  the  same,  for  these  things  are 
generally  hereditary — \Col.  Perceval  smiles  in  spite  of  him- 
self]—  I  wonder,  I  was  going  to  say,  why,  when  they  are 
asked  why  they  are  found  on  a  pyramid,  or  in  a  harem,  or 
some  other  unexpected  place,  they  have  to  begin  their 
recital  fifteen  years  back  in  order  to  explain. 

Col.  Perceval  (aside).  How  she  does  run  on!  Still  the 
same  !     (Aloud)  Don't  be  afraid — I  have  no  intention  of 


30  A  CJimice  Interview 

inflicting  my  very  unromantic  life  and  adventures  on  you. 
My  father  was  not  a  king. 

Lady  Rockmount  (with  an  assumption  of  the  deepest 
interest).     Indeed  ?     You  surprise  me. 

Col.  Perceval  (checking  himself).  You  will  only  laugh 
at  me,  I  know — you  are  not  at  all  as 'helpful  as  you  promised. 

Lady  Rockmount.  On  the  contrary,  I  feel  eminently 
helpful,  I  assure  you — and  I  can  render  you  my  assistance 
with  conviction,  for  I  never  heard  of  anything  more  suit- 
able than  the  step  you  are  going  to  take. 

Col.  Perceval.     Suitable  ?    I  hate  that  expression. 

Lady  Rockmount.  Why,  I  can't  think  of  any  other 
that  better  expresses  my  meaning  !  it  is  all  so  natural,  so 
exactly  what  everybody  expected. 

Col.  Perceval.     Horrible  ! 

Lady  Rockmount.  You  come  back  from  India  after  a 
long  absence,  and  find  the  daughter  of  your  old  friend. 
General  Greville,  grown  from  a  child  into  a  charming 
woman,  thrown  constantly  into  your  society  with  the 
intimacy  of  long  friendship.  What  more  obvious  than 
that  you  should  end  by  falling  in  love  with  her  1 

Col.  Perceval.  Oh,  don't  !  It  makes  me  feel  as  if  I  had 
had  nothing  to  do  with  it  ! 

Lady  Rockmount.  Well,  really,  we  have  not  much  to 
do  with  these  things  after  all — we  are  the  creatures  of 
circumstances,  more  or  less.  That  is  not  a  strikingly 
original  statement,  I  know,  but  it  will  bear  a  good  deal  of 
repetition.  It  makes  one  feel  very  small  to  reflect  occasion- 
ally on  the  way  one's  destiny  is  determined.  You  are 
asked  out  to  a  dinner  where  you  would  have  met  your  fate — 
you  have  a  headache  and  decline  to  go.  You  miss  your 
train  because  your  cab  is  slow,  and  hear  afterwards  that 
half  the  passengers  have  been  killed  in  an  accident.  Your 
neighbour  puts  a  piece  of  carpet  on  the  pavement  for  his 
friends  to  walk  on,  and  you  use  it  to  break  your  leg  over 


A  Chance  Interview  3 1 

instead.  Somebody  forgets  to  post  a  letter  for  you,  and  so 
your  burning  declaration  of  love  remains  for  months  in  his 
greatcoat  pocket — or,  on  an  evening  when  fate  is  more 
propitious  to  you,  you  unexpectedly  meet  with  a  female 
friend  whom  chance  has  brought  to  your  support  and  help. 
Ha  !  ha  !  Now  do  you  agree  with  my  doctrine  %  Has  my 
eloquence  convinced  you  ? 

Col.  Perceval  (uneasily).  Oh,  certainly — no  doubt  I  only, 
don't  think  me  very  rude — I  feel  somehow  as  if  I  could  do 
it  better  alone. 

Lady  Rockmount.  Oh,  don't  slight  my  powers  as  an 
advocate  ;  you  wound  me  in  my  tenderest  point.  You 
admit  that  I  have  some  command  of  language,  don't 
you  1 

Col.  Perceval.  Oh,  certainly,  certainly  !  no  one  could 
doubt  it. 

Lady  Rockmount.  More  command,  perhaps,  than  you 
have  1 

Col.  Perceval.     Yes.     Oh,  incontestably. 

Lady  Rockmount.  Well,  then,  it  is  clear  that  Provi- 
dence, or  fate,  or  chance,  whichever  brought  me  here  to- 
day, did  so  for  the  express  purpose  of  coming  to  your 
rescue  !  and  never  shall  it  be  said  that  I  refused  my  aid  to 
a  timid  monosyllabic  friend. 

Col.  Perceval.  Thank  you,  thank  you  very  much. 
(Aside)  This  is  too  absurd  !  What  shall  I  do  1  The 
situation  is  becoming  horrible.  It  is  no  use.  I  don't  feel 
now  as  if  I  could  speak  to  Mrs.  Greville  to-day. 

Lady  Rockmount.  Now,  then,  let  us  prepare  for  our 
exordium.  Oh,  this  is  most  interesting — this  is  exactly 
what  I  enjoy. 

Col.  Perceval.     It  is  a  good  thing  somebody  enjoys  it. 

Lady  Rockmount  (gaily).  Now,  what  sl.all  we  say 
when  Mrs.  Gre\dlle  comes  in  1 

Col.  Perceval.     Oh,  this  is  fearful  —  it   is  outrageous  — 


32  A  Chance  Interview 

it  is  impossible  !    Lady  Eockmount,  I  am  very  sorry,  but  I 
really  cannot  do  it. 

Lady  Rockmount  (surprised).  Cannot  do  what  ? 
Col.  Perceval.  I  cannot  stay — I  really  can't.  I  will 
write  to  Mrs.  Greville.  You  know  what  a  shy  and 
awkward  creature  I  am.  As  I  told  you,  I  am  not  accus- 
tomed to  this  kind  of  thing,  and  I  couldn't  do  it  for  the 
first  time  with  an  audience — I  positively  couldn't. 

Lady  Rockmount  (looking  at  him  reflectively).  But 
now  do  tell  me  how  you  have  managed  to  preserve  your 
pristine  simplicity  !  Is  an  officer's  life  in  Calcutta  absolutely 
the  same  as  that  of  a  maiden  in  an  English  village  %  How 
is  it  that  you  -have  escaped  the  temptations  of  matrimony 
unscathed  ?  Do  tell  me  !  Was  it  prudence,  coldness,  or 
the  force  of  circumstances  ? 

Col.  Perceval  (gloomily).  It  was  mainly,  I  suppose,  the 
force  of  circumstances,  again  bearing  out  your  favourite 
theory.  I  will  tell  you,  though  I  shall  be  laughed  at  for  my 
pains.  I  have  not  escaped  so  unscathed  as  you  imagine 
from  the  sufterings  which  beset  the  susceptible.  In  my 
youth,  when  I  was  not  as  wise  as  I  am  now,  I  fell  deeply, 
hopelessly  in  love  with  a  young  girl  I  knew.  I  thought  she 
returned  my  affection,  for  it  was  easy  to  be  misled  by  her 
manner — sweet,  bright,  sympathetic,  fascinating,  women 
adored  her,  men  were  at  her  feet.  Why  should  I  have 
flattered  myself  that  she  should  choose  me  from  among  the 
crowd  of  competitors,  to  reward  me  with  the  priceless  gift 
of  her  hand  % 

\Voices   outside.     Lady   Rockmount,   who   has   been 
listening  pensively,  starts  up. 

Col.  Perceval.  There  is  Mrs.  Greville  !  I  had  forgotten 
her  !     What  time  is  it  1    Good  heavens  !  it  is  past  ten  ! 

Lady  Rockmount  (recovering  hei'self).  And  your 
exordium  1 

Col.  Perceval  (half  to  himself).     What  shall  I  say  1 


A  Chance  Interviezu  t,^ 

Lady  Rockmount  (maliciously).  And  yet  you  seemed 
extremely  fluent  just  now.  Well,  don't  let  us  be  absolutely 
silent  when  she  comes  in — let  us  be  talking  about  something  ! 
[^As    door    opens   Lady    Rockmount    speaks    loudly^ — and 

whatever  you  may  say  about  the  Primrose  League 

\^Door  opens.     Col.  Perceval  standing  tvith  his  back  to 
it,  trying  to  recover  himself. 

Enter  Maid. 

Maid.  Mrs.  Greville  is  so  very  sorry  to  keep  you  wait- 
ing, my  Lady — she  will  be  ready  in  a  quarter  of  an  hour. 

Lady  Rockmount.  Oh,  pray  tell  her  not  to  hurry— it 
doesn't  matter  in  the  least.     I  have  plenty  of  time. 

Maid.     Thank  you,  my  Lady.  \_Exit  Maid. 

Col.  Perceval.  Another  quarter  of  an  hour  !  that  makes 
the  third  within  the  last  twenty  minutes.  But  this  one  is 
more  welcome  than  the  others  were. 

Lady  Rockmount.  A  quarter  of  an  hour  !  Then  you 
have  time  to  go  on  with  that  delightful  tale. 

Col.  Perceval.  No,  no — why  should  I?  After  all,  it  is 
not  worth  hearing — it  is  a  most  foolish  story,  of  no  value  or 
interest  to  anybody  but  the  owner. 

Lady  Rockmount.     Nay,  nay  !  you  must  go  on  with  it. 

Col.  Perceval.  I  was  not  in  a  position  to  marry — I 
could  not  ask  her,  of  all  people  in  the  world,  to  share  com- 
parative poverty — when  my  fortunes  suddenly  changed.  I 
got  an  appointment  in  India,  which  at  once  altei'ed  my 
position.  For  three  days  I  was  unable  to  go  to  her,  as  I 
had  to  go  to  Scotland  to  see  a  Cabinet  Minister  who  was 
at  Balmoral.  On  my  return  I  found  I  must  sail  in  two 
days.  I  went  off  at  once  to  see  her,  but  when  I  reached 
her  door  there  was  a  carriage  drawn  up  in  front  of  it. 

( He  pauses. 

Lady  Rockmount  (lightly).     Well,  what  then  1     How 

D 


34  -A  Chance  Intervieiv 

did  that  impede  you  ?     It  was  not,  I  presume,  driving  up 
the  steps  to  the  hall  door  % 

Col.  Perceval.  It  stopped  me  because  I  knew  the 
owner  !  and  not  only  that,  but  I  knew  also  for  what 
purpose  he  was  in  that  house,  for  the  night  before  we  had 
walked  home  together  from  the  club,  having  a  smoke,  and 
he  had  then  told  me  that  he  was  in  love — that  he  was  going 
to  propose — to — to  the  girl  I  also  loved.  I  said  nothing  :  I 
did  not  return  his  confidence.  Foolishly,  idiotically  secure 
as  I  thought  myself,  I  let  him,  as  I  thought,  rush  on 
his  fate — but  ah  !  the  result  was  very  different  from  my 
expectations  ! 

Lady  Rockmount.     What  !  did  she  not  refuse  him  1 
Col.    Perceval.     Refuse    him  1      Ah,    you    know    well 
enough  that  she  did  not. 
Lady  Rockmount.     I?!/ 

Col.  Perceval.  Yes,  you,  who,  after  playing  with  me 
and  torturing  me  for  two  months,  were  content  to  dismiss 
me  with  a  thought,  without  a  regret  ! 

Lady  Rockmount.  What  !  You  were  still  in  England 
that  day  when  Lord  Rockmount  came,  and  you  were  con- 
tent to  turn  away  from  the  door  when  you  found  he  was 
in  the  house,  without  making  an  attempt  to  discover  what 
had  happened  1 

Col.  Perceval.  No  indeed — I  did  make  the  attempt.  I 
came  next  morning  again  to  the  house,  full  of  hope  and 
confidence,  but  it  was  then  I  found  how  fatal  my  pro- 
crastination had  been  to  me,  for  in  the  street  I  met  Mrs. 
Storey,  who  stopped  me  to  tell  me,  with  evident  satisfaction, 
that  she  knew  for  a  fact  that  the  girl  I  loved  was  engaged 
— engaged  to  him,  whom,  fool  that  I  was  !  I  had  calmly 
left  in  possession  of  the  situation  the  day  before !  I  left 
London  that  night,  and  sailed  for  India  next  day. 

Lady  Rockmount  (starting  up).  Mrs.  Storey  told  you 
that  ?   She  knew,  then,  that  you  were  still  in  London  !   False, 


A  Chance  Interview  35 

wicked,  perfidious  woman  !  She  knew  that  if  I  were 
engaged  it  was  her  doing,  for  she  had  told  me,  two  days 
befoi-e,  that  you  had  unexpectedly  received  an  appointment, 
and  had  suddenly  left  for  India,  unmindful,  as  I  thought,  of 
me,  of  everything  but  your  ambition.  What  was  I  to  do  ? 
Lord  Rockmount,  I  knew,  was  the  best  and  most  chivalrous 
of  men.  I  thought  you  were  gone,  that  I  was  abandoned, 
deserted,  miserable  !     Oh,  Philip,  you  know  the  rest ! 

Col.  Perceval.  Kate,  my  dear  Kate  !  that  I  should 
have  been  so  blind,  such  a  fool  as  to  throw  away  the 
happiness  that  lay  within  my  grasp  !  You  were  not  false 
to  me,  then — it  was  not  your  manner,  your  dear  entrancing 
manner,  that  deceived  me  ! 

Lady  Rockmount.  Deceived  you  !  You  were  capable 
of  thinking  I  had  deceived  you  !  I  have  an  entrancing 
manner,  no  doubt,  but  it  was  hard  on  me  that  you  should 
have  been  so  ready  to  think  the  worst  of  me  at  once. 

Col.  Perceval.  But  didn't  I  tell  you  that  I  don't  under- 
stand how  to  manage  these  things  ?  You  won't  believe  what 
an  unsophisticated  creature  I  am.  If  it  had  not  been  for 
the  blessed  chance  of  meeting  you  here  this  evening  I  should 
have  gone  down  to  the  grave  believing  you  heartless. 

Lady  Rockmount  (smiling).  And  didn't  I  tell  you  that 
we  are  the  creatures  of  circumstances  ?  If  that  carriage 
had  not  been  drawn  up  before  my  door  you  would  have 
come  in — or  if  you  had  not  met  Mrs.  Storey  in  the  Square 
next  morning  everything  would  have  been  different. 

Col.  Perceval.  Yes :  but  if,  on  the  other  hand,  that 
opera  box  had  not  been  sent  you,  and  you  had  not  come 
in  here  early  to  fetch  Mrs.  Greville,  things  might  have  been 
more  different  still. 

Lady  Rockmount.  Oh,  yes,  no  doubt  things  might  have 
been  worse. 

Col.  Perceval.     Ah,  Kate — my  darling  ! 

Lady  Rockmount.     Yes,  yes — but  there  is  no  time  for 

D  2 


^6  A  Chance  Intervieiv 

all  that  now.  The  question  is,  what  are  you  going  to  say 
to  Mrs.  Greville  % 

Col.  Perceval.  By  Jove,  yes  !  What  am  I  to  say  to 
Mrs.  Greville  ?  Oh,  I  will  say  that  I  want  to  go  to  the  opera 
too — that — that — I  adore  Meyerbeer  — that  I  worship  the 
Africaine  ! 

Lady  Rockmount.  Come,  come,  I  am  afraid  she  will 
hardly  believe  that  you  wanted  to  see  her  in  order  to  tell 
her  you  were  passionately  in  love  with — the  Africaine  ! 

Col.  Perceval.  Very  well,  then,  you  had  better  tell  me 
what  I  am  to  say — you  have  so  much  more  command  of 
language  than  I,  you  know. 

Lady  Rockmount.  I  am  not  so  sure  of  that,  after  all  ! 
you  have  improved  wonderfully  in  that  respect  within  the 
last  quarter  of  an  hour. 

Col.  Perceval.  Yes,  it  is  the  last  quarter  of  an  hour 
that  has  done  it  !  I  shall  always  love  Mrs.  Greville  for 
taking  so  long  to  dress. 

Lady  Rockmount  (listening).  Here  she  is,  though,  this 
time — she  is  ready  at  last. 

Enter  Maid. 

Maid.  Your  carriage  is  here,  my  Lady,  and  Mrs. 
Greville  is  just  ready. 

Lady  Rockmount.     Very  well,  we  will  go  down. 

[Exit  Maid. 

Col.  Perceval.  Really,  the  amount  of  emotions  that 
maid  has  caused  me  to-day  by  coming  in  and  out  ! 

Lady  Rockmount.  See  what  it  is  to  have  a  guilty 
conscience  ! 

Col.  Perceval.  I  admit  I  would  rather  face  a  jungle 
tiger  than  Mrs.  Greville  at  this  moment  !  Do  you  know, 
I  think  I  will  not  come  with  you  to  the  opera  ? 

Lady  Rockmount.  But  remember  how  you  adore  the 
Africaine  1 


A  Chance  Interview  37 

Col.  Perceval.  Yes,  yes — but  all  the  same  it  would  be 
better  if  you  went  tete-a-tete  with  Mrs.  Greville,  and  told 
her  that  — that 

Lady  Rockmount.     That — what  1 

Col.  Perceval.     That  we  are  engaged. 

Lady  Rockmount.  Engaged,  are  we  ?  I  had  not  under- 
stood that. 

Col.  Perceval  (staggered).  What  1  Ah,  Kate,  Kate,  you 
are  laughing  at  me  !  be  merciful  to  me  after  all  you  have 
made  me  suffer  ! 

Lady  Rockmount.  I  declare  that  nothing  has  been  said 
about  our  being  engaged.  We  have  talked  about  the  past — 
we  have  sentimentalised  over  bygone  memories,  lamented 
over  lost  opportunities  :  that  was  all,  I  think. 

Col.  Perceval  (hotly).  Yes,  and  whj  1  Because  you 
would  not  let  me  say  all  I  was  burning  to  utter — say  the 
words  that  for  ten  years  have  been  waiting  on  my  lips — 
that  I  love  you,  I  adore  you,  that  the  whole  strength  of  my 
life  is  in  the  love  I  bear  you- — that  my  one  dearest  hope  is 
to  call  you  my  wife  !  that  for  you  I  am  ready  to — to 

Lady  Rockmount  (trying  to  conceal  her  emotion).  To 
face  Mi's.  Greville  to-morrow  morning  with  an  explanation  ! 
Ha  !  ha  !     I  wish  you  joy  of  that  moment  ! 

Col.  Perceval.  Ah,  Kate!  if  I  am  but  sure  of  you  I 
am  ready  to  face  anything.  One  word  from  you  will  be 
enough  to  make  me  dauntless. 

I^ady  Rockmount.  One  word — ah,  Philip  !  that  one 
word  is  — Yes.  [Col.  Perceval  seizes  her  hand. 

Lady  Rockmount.     I  hear  Mrs.  Greville  on  the  stairs. 

Col.  Perceval.  I  don't  care.    I  am  afraid  of  nothing  now. 

Jjady  Rockmount  (going  out,  followed  by  Col.  Perceval). 
Come,  then,  you  shall  put  us  into  the  carriage — and  I  will 
take  Mrs.  Greville  to  the  opera,  and  tell  her  how  fate 
brought  us  together  here  to-day  to  have  a  Chance  Inter- 
view ! 

Curtain. 


38 


THE  WEOXG  POET 


CHARACTERS. 


The  Poet  Se?aphin. 
Captain  Seymour. 
Mr.  Gore. 


Mrs.  Vernon. 
Lady  Rocxville. 
Mrs.  Dodson. 


Servant. 
Scene. — Mrs.  Venwr^s  drawing-room. 

Mrs.  Vernon  (reading).  Oh,  what  delightful  poems  ! 
How  perfect  in  substance  and  form  !  This  indeed  is  true 
poetry  !  And  to  think  that  to-day,  perhaps,  I  shall  see  the 
gifted  one  who  wrote  them — that  he  will  come  in  here — into 
my  drawing-room  ! — that  I  shall,  perhaps,  hear  from  his 
lips  some  undying  sentiment,  such  as  those  over  which  I 
liave  been  gloating  in  his  latest  volume,  the  '  Sobs  of  the 
Soul ' !  I  wonder  if  he  will  really  come  ?  Captain  Seymour 
and  Mr.  Gore  undertook  to  bring  him,  to  tell  him  of  my 
enthusiasm  and  admiration.  What  will  Lady  Rockville 
say  when  she  hears  he  has  been  to  see  me  \  She  will 
tear  her  hair  out  with  envy  and  vexation  !  and  well  she 
jnay,  for  Seraphin  is  not  the  sort  of  tame  poet  to  be  found 
on  every  hearthrug.  No  :  to  have  him  in  one's  house  is  a 
privilege  indeed,  and  belongs  only  to  the  elect.  [^  ring  at 
the  hell.^  A  ring  !  If  it  were  he  !  Quick — where  are  the 
'Sobs  of  the  Soul'  ! 

\She  takes  the  volume  and  appears  absorbed  in  it  as 
the  door  opens. 

Servant  (announcing).     Lady  Rockville. 

Mrs.  Vernon.  Good  heavens  !  That  woman  to-day,  of 
all  days  ! 


Tlie  Wrong  Poet  39 

Enter  Lady  Rockville. 

Mrs.  Vernon.     VLy  dear  Lady  Rockville,  how  delightful  I 

\^Exit  Servant. 

Lady  Rockville.  How  kind  of  you  to  say  so  !  It  is  a 
shame  to  disturb  you  when  you  are  reading  so  comfortably. 

Mrs.  Vernon.     On  the  contrary.     Do  sit  down. 

Lady  Rockvilh.  You  are  very  studious  to-day.  What 
Ls  your  book  1 

Mrs.  Vernon.  Can  you  ask  ?  It's  the  latest  volume 
published  by  Seraphin,  '  Sobs  of  the  Soul.' 

Lady  Rockville.  Oh,  yes  !  the  '  Sobs  of  the  Soul.' 
How  beautiful  it  is  !  so  touching,  so  stirring — I  positively 
adore  poetry. 

Mrs.  Vernon.     Indeed  ?     I  did  not  know  it. 

Lady  Rockville  (surprised).  Didn't  you  ?  But,  my 
dear  friend,  surely  you  know  what  a  frenzied  musician  I 
am  ?  that  I  breathe  and  exist  only  for  music — that  I  live 
for  nothing  else  ? 

Mrs.  Vernon.  Yes,  yes.  I  remember  you  have  told  me 
so  more  than  once. 

Lady  Rockville.  Well,  when  one  is  as  musical  as  that 
poetry  is  included. 

Mrs.  Vernon.  Well,  it  doesn't  seem  strange  to  me,  of 
course,  that  anyone  should  care  for  poetry.  It's  my  passion, 
a  positive  mania. 

Lady  Rockville.  That's  just  like  me  for  music.  I 
wander  at  will  in  a  world  of  my  own. 

Mrs.  Vernon.  Just  like  me  too.  I  wander  in  a  world  of 
my  own,  far  removed  from  the  echoes  of  everyday  existence. 

Lady  Rockville.  Really  ?  It's  quite  odd  to  see  how 
alike  we  feel.  I  only  long  to  be  out  of  reach  of  the  echoes 
of  vulgar  existence  :  the  commonplace  everydayness  of 
things  repels  me.  My  mind  would  ever  be  taking  wing 
towards  the  empyrean. 


40  T]ie  Wrong  Poet 

Mrs.  Vernon.  Exactly  !  so  would  mine.  I  often  have 
that  feeling. 

Lady  Rockville.  I  dream  of  music  and  musicians — of 
nothing  else  absolutely.  Oh,  by  the  way,  I  am  going  to 
have  a  great  and  most  enviable  treat  next  week.  Staccati, 
the  great  composer  Staccati,  has  promised  to  come  to  my 
house,  and  he  is  not  to  be  met  with  everywhere,  I  can 
assure  you. 

Mrs.  Vernon.  Oh,  really  ?  I  thought  he  was.  I  thought 
he  was  very  anxious  to  go  into  society  since  he  has  been 
taken  up  by  two  or  three  people,  who  are  beginning  to  make 
him  a  reputation. 

Lady  Rockville.  You  are  under  an  entirely  mistaken 
impression,  I  assure  you.  He  goes  hardly  anywhere,  though 
with  his  great  fame  it  is  often  difficult  to  remain  secluded. 
Mrs.  Vernon.  I  am  expecting  some  one  who  is  really 
difficult  to  get.  Of  course  he  is  far  above  Staccati,  or  any- 
body else  in  the  present  day. 

Lady  Rockville  (annoyed).     And  who  is  that,  may  I  ask  ? 
Mrs.  Vernon.     The  poet  Seraphin. 

Lady  Rockville  (excited).  The  poet  Seraphin  !  What  ! 
do  you  mean  he  is  coming  here  to  see  you  ?  Do  you  know 
him,  then  1 

Mrs.  Vernon  (embarrassed).  Yes,  yes — that  is  to  say, 
I  have  written  to  him.  He  knows  that  he  can  rely  on  my 
unbounded  sympathy  and  admiration. 

Lady  Rockville.  I  must  say  I  should  like  to  see  him. 
When  do  you  expect  him  1  Do  you  think  there  is  any 
chance  of  his  coming  to-day  1 

Mrs.  Vernon.  I  don't  know — at  any  rate  I  shall  be  de- 
lighted if  you  will  stay  on  the  chance. 

fjady  Rockville.  Oh,  how  kind  of  you  !  I  shall  be 
flelighted,  I  need  not  say. 

Mrs.  Vernon  (aside).  There's  nothing  else  to  be  done,  I 
suppose. 


The  Wrong  Poet  41 

Lady  Eockville.  Oh,  I  shall  quite  appreciate  the  privi- 
lege of  meeting  him,  I  assure  you.  You  must  remember 
that  my  soul  is  as  sensitive,  as  ready  to  vibrate  to  every 
impulse,  as  your  own. 

Mrs.  Vernon  (aside).     I  must  say  I  like  that ! 

Lady  Rockville.  No — I  am  not  like  Mrs.  Dodson,  who 
would  have  no  more  emotion  at  meeting  the  great  Seraphin 
than — than 

Mrs.  Vernon.     Than  the  great  pyramid. 

Lady  Rockville.  Exactly  I  not  so  much.  What  a  com- 
monplace woman  she  is  !  prosaic  to  a  degree  ! 

Airs.  Vernon.  Indeed  she  is.  Just  imagine,  the  other 
day,  when  I  went  to  see  her,  she  talked  to  me  the  whole 
time  about  her  children's  education. 

Lady  RockviUe.  Heavens,  how  deadly  !  That's  just 
what  that  sort  of  woman  does  talk  about — no  poetry,  no 
imagination. 

Mrs.  Vernon.     There's  a  ring  at  the  bell. 

Lady  Rockville.     Seraphin  himself,  perhaps. 

[J/rs.  Vernon  takes  the  '  Sobs  of  the  Soul '  into  her 
hand  hastily. 

Lady  Rockville  (loud,  as  the  door  is  opened).  Oh,  it  is 
too  beautiful  !  Don't  stop  reading  for  a  moment,  dear 
friend,  pray.  \^Servant  announces  Mrs.  Dodson. 

Lady  Rockville.     Oh,  that  woman  at  this  moment  ! 

Mrs.  Vernon.     What  shall  we  do  ? 

Enter  Mrs.  Dodson.     Exit  Servant. 

Mrs.  Dodson.  How  do  you  do,  Mrs.  Vernon  ?  Are  you 
quite  well  ? 

Mrs.  Vernon  (shaking  hands).  Quite  well,  thank  you, 
and  you  ? 

Mrs.  Dodson  (shaking  hands  with  Lady  Rockville) 
Oh,  I  am  perfectly  well,  of  course — I  always  am. 


42  The  Wrong  Poet 

Lady  Rockville  (aside).  Oh,  the  coarse  fibre  of  such  a 
nature  !  [They  sit  down. 

Mrs.  Dodson.     What  a  beautiful  day  ! 

Mrs.  Vernon.     Yes,  very. 

Mrs.  Dodson.  It  was  a  little  cool  in  the  morning. 
Were  you  out  then  1 

Mrs.  Verrton.  No.  I  never  go  out  in  the  morning.  I 
devote  it  to  the  earnest  and  intense  study  of  my  favourite 
authors. 

Lady  Rockville  (smiling).     To  one  especially,  I  imagine. 

Mrs.  Vernon.     Yes,  one  above  all. 

[Taking  up  the  ^  Sobs  of  the  Soid.' 

Mrs.  Dodson.  What  a  pity  to  stay  in  the  house  when 
it  is  so  fine  !  I  was  out  nearly  two  hours  this  morning  in 
Kensington  Gardens,  with  baby. 

Lady  Rockville  (aside).  I  knew  that  baby  would  come 
into  the  conversation  before  long. 

Mrs.  Vernon.  Oh,  I  should  consider  that  a  deplorable 
waste  of  time.  I  prefer  to  raise  and  transfigure  my  intelH- 
gence  by  absorbing  the  great  works  of  the  masters  of 
literature. 

Mrs.  Dodson.  What  is  the  work  you  have  been  read- 
ing this  morning  1 

Mrs.  Vernon  (reverently).     The  '  Sobs  of  the  Soul.' 

Lady  Rockville.     By  Seraphin. 

Mrs.  Dodson.  Seraphin — let  me  see,  I  know  that  name, 
I  think.     He's  a  poet,  isn't  he  ? 

Mrs.  Vernon.  A  poet !  The  poet — the  greatest  poet  of 
modern  times. 

Mrs.  Dodson.  Oh,  really — I  must  read  some  of  his 
verses  when  I  have  time,  then.  Just  now  I'm  busy  covering 
the  dining-room  chairs.  You  ve  no  idea  of  the  time  it  takes. 
I've  been  to  every  shop  in  London.  I  want  rather  pale 
red.  Don't  you  think  that  will  be  pretty  for  the  dining- 
room  ? 


The  Wrong  Poet  43 

Mrs.  Vernon  (bored).  I  dare  say,  yes.  We  haA'e  red  in 
our  dining  room. 

Mrs.  Dodson  (interested).  Oh,  have  you,  really  ?  I 
wonder  if  it  is  the  red  I  want.  Might  I  see  it  ?  Perhaps 
it  is  the  colour  of  my  dreams. 

Lady  Rockville  (aside).  Dreams,  indeed  !  Yes,  her 
dreams  are  of  dining-room  chairs,  and  nothing  else. 

Mrs.  Vernon.  Certainly.  If  you  would  like  to  see  the 
colour  of  our  dining-rooiu  I  shall  be  delighted  to  show  it 
to  you.     Will  you  come  too,  Lidy  Rockville  1 

Lady  Rockville.     I  shall  be  delighted.  [They  go  out. 

Enter  Servant,  followed  hy  Mr.  Gore  and  Captain 
Seymour,  the  latter  in  disguise. 

Servant  (announcing).  Mr.  Gore,  Mr.  Seraphin.  (Look- 
ing round)  Oh,  I  thought  Mrs.  Vernon  was  here,  sir.  I'll 
go  and  tell  her. 

3fr.  Gore.  No,  no,  don't  tell  her — we'll  wait  here. 
[Exit  Servant.^  I'm  not  sorry  to  have  one  moment  more 
to  combine  our  plans. 

Captain  Seymour  (anxiously).  Are  you  sure  she  won't 
know  me  1 

Mr.  Gore.  How  on  earth  should  she  know  you  in  that 
get-up  1  You  look  like  Shakespeare,  or  Beaumont  and 
Fletcher,  or  somebody  of  that  sort. 

Seymour  (anxiously).  Do  you  think  she'll  take  me  for 
Seraphin  1 

Gore.     Of  course  she  will,  you  donkey  ! 

Seymour.     My  conscience  is  beginning  to  smite  me. 

Gore.  Nonsense  !  We  did  all  we  could  to  make  Sera- 
phin come,  and  as  he  wouldn't  we've  brought  somebody  else 
instead.     She'll  be  just  as  pleased. 

Seymour.  And  suppose  Seraphin  were  to  change  his 
mind,  and  suddenly  appear  while  I  am  here  ? 


44  The  Wrong  Poet 

Gore  (laughing).  Then  there  will  be  two  !  Don't  you 
be  afraid :  he  won't  come.  He  told  me  so,  point  blank. 
He  hates  society,  he  hates  being  adulated,  and,  above  all, 
he  would  hate  to  come  and  see  an  adoring  lady  whom  he 
does  not  know,  and  who  would  overwhelm  him  with  senti- 
}nental  chatter  about  things  she  does  not  understand.  No, 
Seraphin  will  not  come  here,  you  may  be  sure. 

Seymour  (laughing).  I  must  say  this  is  very  funny. 
I'm  dying  to  hear  what  she'll  say  to  me. 

Gore.  I'll  tell  you  what  would  be  still  funnier,  a  still 
better  joke,  and  that  is  that  after  you  have  retired  I  should 
appear,  also  personating  Seraphin. 

Seymour.     How  would  you  get  yourself  up,  then  ? 

Gore.  I  have  the  very  thing.  I  have  in  my  rooms, 
just  over  the  way,  a  costume  of  the  time  of  Louis  XIV.  of 
France,  in  which  I  went  to  a  fancy  dress  ball  the  other  day. 
As  soon  as  you're  gone,  I  appear.  While  I'm  here  you  go  to 
my  rooms  and  change  your  things :  I  follow  you  there  and 
do  the  same,  and  then,  in  our  ordinary  attire,  we  come  back 
here  to  make  a  formal  call,  and  apologise  for  not  having 
been  able  to  bring  Seraphin. 

Seymour.  That  really  would  be  excellent,  I  must  say — 
only 

Gore.     Only  what  1 

Seymour.     I  still  feel  rather  conscience-stricken. 

Gore.  Your  conscience  is  perfectly  ridiculous.  Mrs. 
Vernon  has  brought  it  on  herself. 

Seymour.     Yes — she  deserves  it,  I  must  say. 

Gore.  Very  well,  then,  that's  settled.  I'll  go  back  to 
dress  and  wait  for  you  in  my  rooms.  You  sit  there  near 
the  table,  the  '  Sobs  of  the  Soul '  in  your  hand.  That's 
right — most  poetical  !  You're  certainly  more  unlike 
Seraphin,  who  looks  like  a  lawyer's  clerk,  than  anyone  I've 
seen  for  a  long  time.    There  !  they  are  coming — I  must  fly  ! 

\Exit  Gore. 


TJie  Wrong  Poet  45 


Enter  Mrs.  Vernon,  Lady  Rockville,  and  Mrs.  Dodson^ . 

\Mrs.  Vernon  starts  as  she  sees  Seymour  sitting  by  the 
table. 

Mrs.  Vernon.     Oh,  I  beg  your  pardon. 

Seymour  (getting  up  and  bowing).  Madam,  you  expressed 
a  wish  to  see  me  liere.  I  was  told  you  desired  to  make  the 
acquaintance  of  the  poet  Seraphin.     Behold  him. 

Mrs.  Vernon.  Oh,  how  can  I  thank  you  for  the  great 
favour,  the  great  honour  you  have  shown  me  ?  I  hardly 
hoped  for  so  much  gracious  condescension. 

Seymour.  It  is  but  seldom  that  I  yield  to  the  impor- 
tunity of  my  admirers — I  pass  my  life  in  profound  seclusion. 
When,  however,  I  come  across  one  who  can  breathe  in  the 
lofty  regions  which  I  inhabit,  I  am  willing  to  stoop  to  brief 
communion  for  a  space. 

Mrs.  Vernon.     Oh,  how  condescending  ! 

Lady  Rockville.     How  affable  ! 

Mrs.  Dodson  (aside).     How  frightfully  conceited  ! 

Lady  Rockville.  Pray,  dear  Mrs.  Vernon,  introduce 
me  to  the  gi'eatest  of  our  poets. 

Mrs.  Vernon  (aside).  She  must  always  come  to  the  front 
somehow.  \To  *S'.]  This  is  Lady  Rockville,  one  of  your 
heartfelt  admirers. 

Lady  Rockville.  If  I  may  say  so,  my  nature  is  as 
sensitive,  as  impressionable  as  that  of  Mrs.  Vernon. 

Seymour  (aside).  Indeed  !  {To  Lady  Rockville)  I  con- 
gratulate you  most  deeply.  {To  Mrs.  Vernon)  It  must 
be  your  excessive  sensibility  which  attracts  that  of  others'. 

Mrs.  Vernon  (flattered).  I  think  it  must  be — at  least 
that's  how  I  account  for  it. 

Seymour  (turning  to  Mrs.  Dodson).  And  is  this  friend 
of  yours  also  one  of  the  chosen  ? 

Mrs.  Vernon.     Of  the  chosen  1 


46  The  Wrong  Poet 

Seyn  our.  I  mean,  does  her  soul  also  respond  and  vibrate 
to  each  impulsive  emotion  ? 

Mrs.  Dodmn  (stiffly).  I  can't  say  that  it  does.  I  don't 
respond,  and  I  don't  vibrate. 

Seymour.  Oh,  I  pity  you  then^ — I  pity  you  indeed  !  But, 
alas  !  everyone  cannot  be  equally  gifted. 

Mrs.  Vernon.     Naturally. 

Lady  Rockville.     That  is  obvious. 

Mrs.  Dodson  (aside).     Upon  my  word  ! 

Mrs.  Vernon  (to  S.)  You  see,  there  lies  your  immortal 
creation,  the  '  Sobs  of  the  Soul,'  my  favourite  volume,  the 
inseparable  companion  of  my  solitude. 

Seymour  (taking  the  book).  Ah !  indeed !  you  are 
right.  There  are  beautiful  things  in  the  '  Sobs  of  the  Soul ' 
— beautiful  things.  Tell  me,  which  is  your  favourite 
sob? 

Mrs.  Vernon.  Amid  so  much  perfection  it  is  indeed 
difficult  to  make  a  choice,  but  it  seems  to  me  that  the  one 
that  is  entitled  'A  Seventh  Love'  is  still  more  transcendent 
than  the  rest. 

Sey^nour.  *A  Seventh  Love?'  Yes,  you  are  right, 
perhaps,  to  choose  it  :  it  is  transcendent — it  flowed  from 
my  pen,  complete,  in  one  gush  of  inspiration  ! 

Mrs.  Vernon.  Oh,  what  a  sentence  !  How  magnifi- 
cently said  ! 

Lady  Rochville.  It  is  worthy  of  the  author  of  the 
'  Sobs  of  the  Soul '  ! 

Mrs.  Dodson  (aside).     It  is,  indeed. 

Mrs.  Vernon  (to  Seymour).  I  have  another  favour  to 
ask  you. 

Seymour.     A  favour  ?     Speak  :  it  shall  be  granted. 

Mrs.  Vernon.  There  is  a  portrait  of  you  at  the  be- 
ginning of  the  book.  I  long  to  possess  your  precious 
signature,  written  by  your  own  hand  underneath. 

Seymour  (aside).     A  portrait  ?    By  Jove  !     That  won't 


The  Wrong  Poet  47 

do.  (Aloud)  The  only  thing  is,  that  this  portrait  is  so  un- 
like me. 

Mrs.  Vernon.  It  is  true  it  is  not  very  satisfactory. 
The  fact  is,  the  dress  and  the  beard  make  such  a  difference, 

Seymour.  Yes,  that's  true.  As  to  my  costume,  I  must 
apologise  for  coming  to  you  in  my  workaday  clothes,  straight 
from  my  writing-table.  It  is  one  of  my  fancies  that  I  can 
only  write  verse  when  I  am  dressed  like  Shakespeare.  We 
men  of  genius  are  often  like  that,  Wagner  could  only 
write  in  a  pink  dressing-gown, 

Mrs.  Vernon.  I  think  it  is  a  most  delightful  play  of 
fancy. 

Lady  Rockville.     So  do  I. 

Mrs.  Dodson  (aside).    They  are  all  three  mad,  I  believe. 

Seymour.  No,  no,  I  really  cannot  sign  that  portrait. 
You  must  allow  me  to  send  you  a  better  one,  one  that  will 
remind  you  more  of  one  whom  you  have  so  kindly  welcomed, 

\^He  puts  out  his  hand. 

Mrs.  Vernon.     You  are  not  going  already  ? 

Seymour.  I  must  indeed.  Immortality  summons  me  ; 
posterity  awaits  me  without^in  a  figurative  sense,  of 
course.  Farewell,  then,  Mrs.  Vernon.  The  Muses  be  with 
you.  {To  Lady  Roc^iville)  With  you,  also.  Lady  Rockville, 
since  you,  too,  respond  and  vibrate.  {To  Mrs.  Dodson)  To 
you,  madam,  I  hardly  dare  to  utter  the  same  wish. 

Mrs.  Dodson.  You  are  quite  right,  thank  you.  I 
should  not  at  all  like  the  Muses  to  be  with  me :  they  would 
disturb  my  household  arrangements  too  much. 

Seymour.  Ah,  again  I  pity  you — I  pity  you  indeed  ! 
{To  Mrs.  V.  and  Lady  R.)  Farewell,  then,  my  sisters  of  the 
soul,  [Exit  Seymour. 

Mrs.  Vernon  (with  a  sigh,  to  Lady  Rockville).  Well, 
my  dear  friend,  what  do  you  say  to  that  ? 

Lady  Rockville.  My  dear,  he's  tremendous — over- 
whelmina:. 


48  Tlie  Wrong  Poet 

Mrs.  Dodson  (aside).     Overwhelming,  indeed  ! 

Mrs.  Vernon.  Well,  I  must  say  it  is  something  to  be 
proud  of  to  have  had  Seraphin  in  one's  own  house. 

Lady  Rockville.     It  is,  indeed,  most  enviable. 

Mrs.  Vernon.     Such  urbanity  !  such  condescension  ! 

Lady  Rockville.  And  how  affable  he  was  to  me,  too  ! 
'  My  sisters  of  the  soul  ! '     What  a  glorious  title  ! 

Mrs.  Vernon.  Glorious,  indeed.  I  felt  myself  trans- 
ported into  the  ether. 

Lady  Rockville.  And  you,  Mrs.  Dodson  ?  What  do 
you  think  of  it  ? 

Mrs.  Vernon.     I'm  afraid  we  needn't  ask. 

Mrs.  Dodson.  Well,  since  you  ask  me,  I  think  it  a  mis- 
take to  make  the  acquaintance  of  men  of  genius.  One 
can't  help  being  disappointed. 

Lady  Rockville.  It  seems  to  me,  on  the  contrary,  that 
that  man  is  the  very  quintessence  of  his  books. 

Mrs.  Vernon.  Poetry  and  inspiration  breathe  in  every 
word  he  utters. 

Mrs.  Dodson.  Well,  I  must  confess  I  would  rather  he 
had  been  a  little  less  conceited,  a  little  more  modest. 

Mrs.  Vernon.  Modest  1  My  dear  Mrs.  Dodson  !  that 
really  is  too  much  to  expect. 

Lady  Rockville.     How  can  a  man  of  genius  be  modest  ? 

Mrs.  Vernon.  Since  we  realise  how  great  his  genius  is, 
of  course  his  greater  intelligence  must  realise  it  incompar- 
ably moi'e. 

Mrs.  Dodson.  I  should  prefer  that  he  should  pretend 
not  to  see  it.  Good-bye,  then,  Mrs.  Vernon,  and  thank  you 
very  much  for  your  advice  about  my  chairs. 

Mrs.  Vernon  (aside).  Is  it  possible  that  at  this  moment 
she  can  think  of  chairs  ? 

Mrs.  Dodson  (smiling).  Do  you  expect  many  other 
great  men  to-day  1 

Mrs.  Vernon.     To-day  ?    No,  I  think  not. 


The  Wrong  Poet  49 

Lady  Rockvitle.  Next  week  I  expect  Staccati  at  my 
house. 

Mrs.  Dodson.  Staccati  1  I  don't  think  I  know  that 
name.    Who  is  he  1 

Lady  Rockmlle  (aside).  What  an  extraordinary  woman  ! 

[J.  hell  is  heard. 

Mrs.  Vernon.     There  is  another  ring  ! 

Mrs.  Dodson.     Perhaps  it  is  the  Poet  Laureate. 

Servant  (announces).     Mr.  Seraphin  ! 

Mrs.  Vernon  (goes  hastily  to  door).  I  wonder  why  he 
has  come  back  ? 

Enter  Gore  in  costume  of  the  time  of  Louis  XIV. 

Lady  Rockville  (aside).     What  can  this  mean  ? 

[Gore  hov;s. 

Mrs.  Vernon  (embarrassed).  I  think  there  must  be 
some  mistake — to  whom  have  I  the  pleasure  of  speaking  ? 

Gore.  To  a  poor  poet,  madam,  a  wretched  scribbler 
whose  name  you  may  perhaps  have  heard — the  poet 
Seraphin. 

All  (together).     The  poet  Seraphin  ! 

Gore.  No  other.  Seraphin,  author  of  the  '  Sobs  of 
the  Soul,'  a  trifle  unworthy  of  consideration. 

Mrs.  Vernon.  I  don't  understand — I  think  there  must 
be  some  mistake.     The  poet  Seraphin  has  just  left  us. 

Gore.     What  !    Some  one  has  dared  to  take  my  name  ? 

Lady  Rockville.      Your  name  ? 

Gore.     My  name,  certainly.     I  am  the  poet  Seraphin. 

Mrs^  Vernon  (still  hesitating).  But  then  how  does  it 
happen 

Gore.  You  don't  believe  me,  I  see.  Just  as  you  please, 
of  coui-se.  If  you  prefer  to  believe  in  some  impostor  who 
has  apparently  been  to  see  you— —  \Goes  toicards  the  door. 

Mrs.  Vernon  (stopping  him).  One  moment.  I  am 
really  very  sorry — this  is  the  most  extraordinary  s'ituation. 

E 


50  The  Wrong  Poet 

If  I  only  knew— if  I  dared  to  ask  you  for  some  sort  of 
proof.  .  .  . 

Gore.  Proof,  madam  !  My  proofs  are  in  my  writings, 
in  my  inspiration.  I  will  tell  you,  however,  that  I  received 
a  note  from  you  this  morning  couched  in  the  most  flatter- 
ing and  appreciative  terms,  and  begging  me  to  come  and 
see  you. 

Mrs.  Vernon.  What  !  Yoxh  received  my  lettei-, 
the  one  which  I  sent  yesterday  by  post  to  the  poet 
8eraplun  ?  You  are  really  the  person,  then,  for  whom  it 
was  meant  % 

Gore.     Apparently,  since  it  was  delivered  to  me. 

Mrs.  Vernon.  But  oh,  who  can  have  come  here  instead 
of  you  %     I  have  received  and  welcomed  an  impostor  ! 

Gore.  So  it  would  appear.  But  it  doesn't  sui-prise  me — 
it  was  probably  some  enemy,  whose  envy  tried  to  bring 
<liscredit  on  me  by  investing  me  with  his  own  unworthy 
personality.  What  was  he  like  %  Was  he  simple  and 
modest,  like  myself  ?     I  dare  say  not. 

Mrs.  Vernon.     I  can't  say  that  he  was  very  modest. 

Lady  Rockville.  If  anything,  I  should  say  rather  the 
reverse. 

Mrs.  Dodson  (aside).     Yes,  I  should  say  the  reverse  ! 

Mrs.  Vernon  (to  Seraphin).  Oh,  will  you  ever  forgive 
me  for  doubting  you,  for  the  terrible  mistake  I  made  when 
I  first  saw  you  ? 

Gore.  Since  you  i-ecognise  your  fault  so  generously,  I 
can  say  no  more — but  come,  let  us  leave  this  unpleasant 
subject.  Tell  me  something  of  your  literary  tastes,  which 
are  admirable,  I  believe. 

Mrs.  Vernon  (pleased).  Oh,  you  are  too  kind.  I  try  to 
understand,  that's  all. 

Gore.  That's  a  great  deal,  when  you  try  to  understand 
tlie  right  thing. 

Lady  liockoille.    I,  also,  try  to  understand. 


The  Wrong  Poet  5 1 

Core.  Oh,  indeed  !  I  congratulate  you.  {^Smiling,  to 
Mrs.  Dodson)  Do  you  also  try  to  understand  ? 

Mrs.  Dodson.     No,  I'm  afraid  I  don't. 

Mrs.  Vernon  (aside).  She'll  spoil  everything.  [Hurriedly 
showing  him  hook)  This  is  my  favourite  volume,  the 
'  Sobs  of  the  Soul.' 

Gore.     Oh,  oh  !  really — you  are  too  good,  indeed. 

Mrs.  Dodson  (aside).  Come,  I  like  this  Seraphin  better 
than  the  other,  at  any  rate. 

Gore.     And  which  is  your  favourite  piece,  may  I  ask  ? 

Mrs.  Vernon.     '  A  Seventh  Love,'  I  think. 

Gore.  '  A  Seventh  Love  ' — really  !  It  is  my  favourite 
too. 

Mrs.  VevTion.  I  am  so  glad  to  find  I  have  chosen 
rightly  !  and  now  I  wonder  if  you  would  do  me  a 
favour  ? 

Gore.     I  am  grateful  to  you  beforehand  for  asking  it. 

Mrs.  Vernon.  It  is  to  write  your  name  under  your 
portrait,  the  frontispiece  of  this  book. 

Go7'e  (aside).  A  portrait  !  That's  awkward.  (Aloud) 
Oh,  really,  this  portrait,  taken  in  ray  youth,  is  so  unlike  me. 
It's  the  portrait  of  an  unknown  Seraphin,  who  had  written 
nothing,  who  had  not  even  his  present  slight  claims  on  your 
regard.  If  you  will  allow  me,  I  will  send  you  the  next 
edition  of  my  poems,  which  will  have  a  better  portrait. 

Mrs.  Vernon.  It's  true  that  this  one  is  not  very  like 
you. 

Gore.  No,  no.  For  one  thing,  I  dressed  differently  at 
that  time — since  I  have  consecrated  myself  in  earnest 
to  the  immortal  art  of  poetry,  I  always  dress  in  the 
costumes  worn  by  the  masters  of  the  past,  in  order  to 
)'emind  me  that  I  must  endeavour  to  tread,  however  un- 
woi'thily,  in  their  footsteps. 

Mrs.  Dodson  (aside).  Oh  yes,  I  like  this  Seraphin  much 
better  than  the  other. 


5  2  The  Wrong  Poet 

Gore.  I  fear  I  must  go  now,  Mrs.  Vernon.  I  am  most 
grateful  to  you  for  your  kind  welcome. 

Mrs.  Vernon.  It  is  I  who  feel  grateful  for  the  honour 
you  have  done  me  in  coming  here. 

Gore  (bowing).  No,  it  is  I  who  am  honoured,  I  assure 
you.  \Exit  Gore. 

Mrs.  Vernon.  Well,  that  was  extraordinary,  I  must 
say. 

Mrs.  Dodson.  I  don't  suppose  it  often  happens  to  any- 
one to  receive  two  Seraphins  in  the  same  day. 

Lady  Rockville.     Who  could  the  first  have  been  ? 

Mrs.  Vernon.  One  of  his  enemies,  I  should  think,  as 
he  suggested.  Imagine  daring  to  assume  the  immortal 
name  of  Seraphin  ! 

Lady  Rockville.  And  to  carry  it  off  with  such  an  air 
too  ! 

Mrs.  Vernon.  I  will  admit  now  that  I  thought  him 
somewhat  self-satisfied,  though  I  did  not  like  to  say  so. 

Jjady  Rockville.     So  did  I. 

Mrs.  Dodson  (aside).     And  so  did  I! 

Mrs.  Vernon.  It  certainly  is  a  bore  to  have  received  the 
impostor  so  well. 

Lady  Rockville.  After  all  it  does  not  matter  much,  as 
you  have  had  the  honour  of  receiving  the  real  Seraphin  all 
the  same. 

Mrs.  Vernon.  Yes,  indeed,  that  is  something  to  have 
lived  for.  It  consoles  one  for  everything.  [A  rin(j.'\  There 
is  somebody  else  ! 

3Irs.  Dodson  (aside).     Perhaps  it's  a  third  Seraphin. 

Servant  (announcing).     Mr.  Sei-aphin  ! 

All.     Seraphin  ! !  ! 

Enter  Serajyhin,  plainly  dressed  in  a  frock  coat,  &c. 
Exit  Servant. 

Seraj)hin  (bowing  stiffly  to  Mrs.  Vernon).    Mrs.  Vernon  1 


The  Wrong  Poet  53 

^  „iiink  you  were  kind  enough  to  ask  me  to  come  and  see 
you. 

Mrs.  Vernon  (bewildered).  I  think  there  must  be  some 
mistake 

Seraphin.     My  name  is  Seraphin. 

Mrs.  Vernon.  Seraphin  !  !  No — this  time  it  is  too 
much  !  even  a  woman's  credulity  has  its  limits. 

Seraphin.     What  1  !  ! 

Mrs.  Vernon.  Seraphin,  the  poet  Seraphin  has  just 
left  this  room — I  beg,  therefore,  that  you  will  cease  this 
practical  joke,  which  can  have  no  other  object  than  to 
insult  me. 

Seraphin  (furious,  but  controlling  his  passion).  Madam, 
it  is  not  you  who  are  being  insulted  here  1  but  your  sex  pro- 
tects you — I  will  say  no  more.  I  will  only  add  that  my 
name  is  Seraphin,  that  I  came  to  gratify  the  burning  desire 
you  expressed  to  see  me,  and  that  I  will  now  leave  your 
house,  never  to  re-enter  it.  I  am  much  indebted  to  you 
for  your  courtesy  and  welcome.  \^Exit  Seraphin. 

Mrs.  Vernon.     What  can  all  this  mean  ? 

Lady  Rockville.     I  don't  understand  a  word  of  it. 

Mrs.  Dodson.  It's  showering  poets  to-day  !  I  never 
saw  anything  like  it. 

Enter  Seymour  and  Gore  hastily,  dressed  in  their 
own  clotlies. 

Gore  (breathless).  I  must  apologise  to  you,  Mrs.  Vernon, 
for  rushing  into  your  room  in  this  way,  but  what  have  you 
been  doing  to  Seraphin  ? 

Mrs.  Vernon.     Seraphin  !  ! 

Gore.     Why  have  you  turned  him  out  of  your  house  t 

Mrs.  Vernon  (faintly).     Turned  him  out  ? 

Gore.  Yes  !  we've  just  met  him  on  the  stairs  in  the 
most  raging,  the  most  tearing  passion.     We  tried  to  lind 


54  The  Wrong  Poet 

out  what  was  the  matter,  but  he  rushed  past,  uttering 
curses  like  a  madman. 

Mrs.  Vernon  (with  a  shriek).  You  met  him  on  the 
stairs  !     What,  it  was  really  Seraphin  ? 

Seymour.     Of  coui'se  it  was  ! 

Gore  (feigning  surprise).     Who  else  should  it  be  ? 

Seymour.  There's  his  portrait — you  only  have  to  look 
at  it  to  see  it  is  the  same  person  (pointing  to  book  open  on 
table). 

Mrs.  Vernon  (looking  at  it).     Yes — it  is  himself  ! 

Lady  Mockville.     It  is  indeed  ! 

Mrs.  Dodson  (aside).     No  mistake  this  time  ! 

Mrs.  Vernon.  Oh,  miserable  woman  that  I  am  ! 
Seraphin  has  been  into  my  house,  and  I  have  insulted  him 
and  turned  him  out  ! 

Mrs.  Dodson.  And  rapturously  welcomed  the  Wrong 
Poets ! 

Curtain.. 


55 


THE  PUBLIC   PEOSECXTOE. 

PLAY  IX  OXE  ACT. 
(Suggested  by  Boisgobey's  '  Crime  de  I'Opcra  ') 

CHARACTERS. 

JeAX  Dabcy,  the  public  prosecutor. 
Philip  Darcy,  his  nephew. 
Aline,  Philip's  wife. 
DoKA  Labiviere,  a  widow. 

Scene. — AHne's     dratving-room,    Boulevard    MaJesherbes, 
Paris.  Philip,  Aline — Ph.  reading  newspaper,  Al.  tvorking. 

Al.     How  absorbed  you  are  in  your  book,  dear  Philip  ! 

\I*h.  does  not  a^iswr. 

Al.  (aside).  How  extraordinary  it  is  that  when  a  man 
is  reading  anything  he  must  needs  give  his  whole  attention 
to  it  I     Women  are  not  like  that  at  all.     {Aloud)  Philip  ! 

Ph.  (starts).  I  beg  your  pardon,  darling — did  you  speak 
to  me  ? 

Al.  (smiling).  Speak  to  you  ?  Of  course  I  did  !  I 
have  been  chatting  w'ith  you  for  the  last  quarter  of  an 
hour. 

Ph.  Oh,  indeed — it  must  have  been  rather  a  one-sided 
conversation!  I  always  thought  it  took  two  to  chat,  but 
apparently  I  was  mistaken. 

Al.  Well,  what  am  I  to  do  if  you  will  go  on  readmg  1 
I  can't  .sit  silent  for  ever,  can  I  ? 

Ph.     Most  certainly  not,  I  should  say  from  experience. 

Al.     A  pretty  state  of  things  it  would  be  if  we  were 


56  The  Public  Prosecutor 

each  to  sit  in  a  corner  of  the  room  with  our  heads  wrapped 
in  a  newspaper,  buried  in  fusty  politics. 

Ph.  I  am  ashamed  to  say  that  it  was  not  a  political 
subject  that  was  interesting  me  so  deeply  just  then. 

Al.     What  was  it,  then  ? 

Ph.  It  was  this  celebrated  trial  that  is  exciting  all 
Paris  so  much — the  murder  that  took  place  at  the  Opera, 
you  know. 

Al.  That  is  the  case  tliat  your  uncle  is  trying  to  un- 
ravel, is  it  not  % 

Ph.  Yes — but  I  fear  that  this  time  even  his  penetra- 
tion is  at  fault— for  once  the  Public  Prosecutor  is  baffled. 

Al.  Poor  uncle  John  !  It  will  be  a  great  blow  to  him. 
His  whole  heart  is  wrapped  up  in  his  profession --he  has  not 
a  thought  for  anything  else. 

Ph.  (dubiously).  H'm— I  am  not  so  sure  of  that!  He 
has  found  a  fresh  subject  of  interest  lately,  in  the  shape  of 
the  fascinating  Madame  Lariviere,  who  is  acquiring  an 
influence  over  him  which  no  woman  has  ever  had  before. 

Al.  You  don't  mean  to  say  that  you  think  there  can 
be  a  question  of  his  marrying  her  % 

Ph.  I  cannot  tell  —he  is  only  55  after  all,  and  though 
I  admit  that  I  have  known  instances  of  men  marrying  at 
an  earlier  age  than  that,  still  I  should  not  like  to  make  any 
i-ash  prophecies  about  his  remaining  a  bachelor  till  the  end 
of  his  days. 

Al.  Well,  I  must  say  Madame  Lariviere  does  not  alto- 
gether inspire  me  with  confidence.     She  is  too— too 

Ph.  (maliciously).     Too  pretty  ? 

Al.  No,  no,  Philip — you  always  think  women  are 
jealous  of  each  other.  It  isn't  that  at  all.  But  she  cei- 
tainly  seems  to  have  a  kind  of  manner  which 

Ph.  Which  men  think  delightful  and  women  call  bad 
style,  eh  ?     I  know  !  ha,  ha  ! 

Al.     You  always  laugh  at  me,  Philip,  as  if  I  were  so 


Tlie  Public  Prosecutor  57 

foolish.     I  know  much  more  of  the  world  than  you  think, 
I  can  tell  you. 

Ph.  I've  no  doubt  of  it,  my  darling.  But  don't  be  too 
worldly  and  clever,  please.  I  like  you  best  as  you  are, 
simple,  unworldly,  and  trustful — and,  joking  apart,  I  am 
quite  ready  to  agree  with  you  that  perhaps  your  instinct 
about  Madame  Lariviere  is  right,  and  that  it  is  a  pity  that  a 
man  in  my  uncle's  position  should  show  himself  constantly 
and  conspicuously  alone  in  public  with  a  charming  widow. 

Al.     Well,  well — it  is  not  our  business,  I  suppose. 

Pli.  No,  it  is  not — and  at  any  rate  it  would  not  come 
with  a  very  good  grace  from  me  to  persuade  my  uncle 
against  any  possible  marriage — for  since,  if  he  dies  un- 
married, I  am  his  acknowledged  heir,  he  would  cei'tainly 
think  I  was  preaching  for  my  own  parish,  as  the  proverb 
says,  and  dissuading  him  from  marrying  for  my  own 
interest. 

Al.  At  any  rate  he  will  not  be  able  to  think  of 
marriage  until  this  case  is  settled. 

Ph.  No,  and  it  does  not  seem  likely  to  be  concluded 
just  yet.  They  have  most  ingeniously  got  up  to  a  certain 
point  in  their  discoveries,  but  now  they  have  arrived  at  a 
blank  wall.  Oh,  how  I  wish  I  could  hnd  out  something  ! 
Fancy,  Aline,  the  joy  of  suddenly  getting  on  to  the  clue  ! 
There  is  no  career  in  the  world  that  appears  to  me  as 
entrancing  as  that  of  the  judicial  investigation  in  a  case  of 
this  kind — playing  a  game  of  chess  blindfold  against  the 
whole  of  society,  and  at  last  succeeding  by  mere  force  of 
patience  and  ingenuity  in  winning  the  match.  Ah,  what- 
ever my  uncle  may  say  slightingly  of  my  talents  in  that 
direction,  he  will  find  them  out  some  ilay,  never  fear. 

AL     I  hope  so.  dear  Philip,  since  you  wish  it — but  I 
can't  help  thinking  that  it  would  be  nicer  if  you  did  some- 
thing else.     There  is  a  ring — who  can  it  be,  at  this  time  ? 
Ph.     It  sounds  like  my  uncle's  voice. 


58  TJie  Public  Proseaitor 

Door  opens  liastily.     Enter  Darcy. 

Al.     What,  uncle  ! 

Darcy.  Yes,  you  may  well  be  surprised— I  have  come 
early  this  morning. 

Al.  Well,  we  are  delighted  to  see  you — will  you  not 
sit  down  1 

Darcy.     No,  thank  you  :  I  am  afraid  I  have  not  time. 

Al.     And  how  is  the  case  prospering  1 

Darcy  (preoccupied).     Oh,  very  well. 

Fh.     V  ery  well  ?     Then  are  you  on  the  track  1 

Darcy.  No,  no — I  was  not  thinking  of  what  I  was 
saying — it  is  not  prospering  at  all. 

Ph.  (to  Al.)     He  is  farther  gone  than  we  thought  ! 

Darcy.  (to  Al.)     I  think  you  know  Madame  Lariviere  ? 

Al.  I  have  seen  her — but  I  have  not  yet  made  her  ac- 
quaintance. 

Darcy.  Indeed  1  how  does  that  happen  ?  I  have  met 
you  constantly  in  the  same  places.  I 

Al.  (confused).  Oh,  it  is  because — because — I  have  not 
yet  had  an  opportunity  of  being  introduced  to  her. 

Darcy.  That  obstacle,  I  hope,  will  soon  be  removed 
— you  will  oblige  me  very  much.  Aline,  if  you  will  go  and 
call  upon  her. 

Al.     Call  upon  her,  uncle  1 

Darcy.     Yes,  call  upon  her — why  not  ? 

Al.     Because — I  don't  know  her. 

Darcy.  But  if  you  are  only  going  to  make  the  acquaint- 
ance of  people  you  know  already,  it  seems  to  me  that 
your  circle  of  friends  will  not  have  much  chance  of  increas- 
ing. 

Al.  Besides,  she  might  wonder  at  my  going  to  see 
her. 

Darcy.  Not  at  all — she  is  the  most  accessible  person 
in  the  world. 


Tlie  Public  Prosecutor  59 

Ph.  (aside).     I  have  no  doubt  of  it. 

Darcy.  She  would  receive  you  with  open  arms,  I  am 
sure. 

Al.     Very  kind 

Darcy.  And  I  feel  assured  that,  when  once  you  know 
her,  you  will  like  her  as  much — as — as— everyone  else  does. 

Al.     Does  everyone  like  her  very  much,  uncle  ? 

Darcy.  All  those,  that  is  to  say,  who  do  not  allow 
themselves  to  be  unjustly  prejudiced — she  is  a  person  of 
unusual  intellectual  gifts.  \_PJb.  boivs  assentingly. 

Darcy.     Of  rare  personal  charm.    \^Al.  hows  assentingly. 

Darcy.     Of  the  warmest  heart  possible 

Al.     That  is  delightful. 

Darcy.     Full  of  sympathy  and  kindness 

Fh.  (smiling).  It  is  something  quite  new  to  hear  you, 
uncle,  showing  so  warm  an  interest  in  anyone,  or  anything, 
outside  the  sphere  of  your  profession. 

Darcy.  Yes,  it  is  new,  I  dare  say — everything  is  new 
when  it  is  done  for  the  first  time,  and  yet  everything  must 
have  a  beginning  at  some  tinni  or  other.  I  don't  know  why 
I,  more  than  any  other  man,  should,  when  I  meet  with 
a  type  of  perfect  womanhood,  remain  insensible  to  her 
charms. 

Fh.  But  are  you  quite  sure,  dear  uncle,  that  in  Madame 
Lariviere  you  have  found  that  type  ? 

Darcy.  Sure — of  course  I  am  sure  !  Have  I  not  been 
describing  her  to  you,  and  do  you  mean  to  tell  me  that  is 
the  description  of  an  ordinary  woman? 

Ph.     No — certainly  not — only 

Darcy.     Only — what  % 

Fh.  (embarrassed).  Only^that  you  may^ perhaps  be 
prejudiced  in  her  favour  by  the  interest  you  appear  to  take 
in  her. 

Darcy.  Prejudiced  !  ...  if  there  is  any  prejudice  it  is 
not  on  my  side,  let  me  tell  you  ! 


6o  TJie  Public  Prosecutor 

Al.  Dear  uncle,  the  only  reason  we  are  perhaps  seem- 
ing not  to  sympathise  with  you  sufficiently  is  our  anxiety 
for  your  welfare. 

Ph.  You  see,  of  course  everyone  knows  the  world's 
opinion  of  Madame  Larivi^re  is 

Darcy  (interrupting  him).  I  beg  your  pardon — /  don't 
know  it — I  don't  wish  to  know  it. 

Ph.  But,  uncle,  surely,  before  forming  a  friendship 
seemingly  as  close  as  this  you  ought  to  hear 

Darcy.  I  want  to  hear  nothing.  I  l^elieve,  as  I  have 
said,  that  Madame  Larivi^re  is  the  type  of  what  a  woman 
ought  to  be — and  I  have  asked  her  to  be  my  wife. 

Ph.,  Al.  (together).     Your  wife  ! 

Darcy.  My  wife,  yes — so,  you  see,  it  is  rather  late  for 
criticism.  I  asked  her  last  night  if  she  would  share  my 
life,  and  she  consented.  Does  that  surprise  you  ?  I  don't 
see  what  there  is  so  utterly  preposterous  in  the  announce- 
ment, I  must  confess. 

Ph.     Certainly  not,  uncle — certainly  not. 

Darcy.  I  am  not  as  young  as  I  was,  I  must  admit — 
but  all  the  more,  therefore,  my  choice  is  likely  to  be  guided 
by  rational  judgment  rather  than  by  youthful  impulse— and, 
after  all,  it  is  no  reason,  because  I  have  been  a  bachelor  so 
long,  that  I  should  remain  so  to  the  end  of  my  days  — why, 
bless  me — it  seems  to  me  that  being  single  is  a  very  good 
reason  why  I  should  marry  ! 

Al.     Oh,  certainly,  dear  uncle — certainly. 

Darcy.  Oh  yes — you  may  say  certainly — but  I  can  see 
very  well  that  you  think  me  an  old  fool  ! 

Al.     I  assure  you,  dear  uncle 

Darcy.  Well,  let  me  tell  you  that  I  am  not,  then— 
nothing  of  the  kind  ! 

Ph.     We  are  quite  ready  to  believe  it. 

Darcy.  I  am  not  quite  so  sure  of  that— you  are  a 
pair  of  most  sympathetic  confidants,  I  must  say  ! 


The  Public  Prosecutor  6 1 

Ph..  You  know  that  everything  which  interests  you 
interests  us. 

Darcy.  That,  I  dare  say,  is  possible — even  people 
without  much  sympathy  can  be  moved  to  feel  a  pecuniary 
interest  in  other  people's  affairs  ! 

Ph.  (angrily).    Uncle  !    [Aline  lays  her  hand  on  his  arm. 

Darcy.  There — there — you  need  not  fly  into  a  rage.  I 
only  meant  that  if  you  are  not  a  fool  you  must  know  that 
my  marriage  will  make  a  certain  diflFerence  to  you — after 
all,  I  don't  blame  you  for  resenting  it— each  man  for  him- 
self, I  suppose,  in  this  egotistical  world. 

Fh.  Uncle,  you  wrong  me  most  grievously  if  you  think 
that  my  opposition  has  anything  to  do  with  my  own  in- 
terests— and  since  you  have  made  up  your  mind  to  the 
decisive  step,  all  I  can  now  do  is  to  wish  you  happiness  and 
joy,  which  I  do  from  the  bottom  of  my  heart. 

[Holds  out  his  hand  to  Darcy. 

Al.     And  so  do  I. 

Darcy.  Thank  you,  thank  you,  my  children — I  believe 
it — you  mustn't  be  angry  with  me — I  am  hot-tempered,  I 
dare  say.  And  now,  the  only  thing  that  stands  in  my  way 
is  this  wretched  case — as  long  as  it  continues  I  am  bound 
hand  and  foot  to  the  law  courts,  and  dare  not  absent  myself 
for  a  single  day  in  case  anything  fresh  should  appear. 

Al.     How  far  have  you  got  now  ? 

Darcy.  As  far,  and  no  further,  as  we  were  three  weeks 
ago — viz.  that  we  have  ascertained  that  the  murdered  woman, 
Fanny  Duval,  was  visited  in  her  box  during  the  evening 
by  another  woman,  closely  veiled — they  seem  to  have  had 
an  excited  and  angry  interview — no  one  saw  the  visitor 
depart — she  probably  succeeded  in  slipping  away  unob- 
served. At  the  close  of  the  evening,  Fanny  Duval  was 
found  dead  in  her  box,  with  a  wound  in  her  chest  close  to 
the  heart — a  small  dagger  was  lying  by  her  side — nothing 
more  is  known. 


62  The  Public  Prosecutor 

Ph.  I  only  wish  I  could  prove  my  good  wishes  by 
helping  you  to  a  discovery. 

Darcy  (smiling).  Well,  why  don't  you  ?  why  don't 
you  employ  these  famous  aptitudes  for  the  career  that 
you  are  always  talking  of,  and  put  us  on  the  track  of 
this? 

Ph.     Ah,  you  may  laugh  at  me,  uncle — but  I  will  do  it. 

Darcy.  Just  listen  to  him  !  well,  well  !  it  is  a  good 
thing  to  be  self-confident  !  no — you  have  no  turn,  be- 
lieve me,  for  criminal  investigation,  but  we  will  find  you 
some  other  path  of  distinction,  never  fear — in  fact — but  no, 
I  will  not  say  anything  about  that  yet.  Good-bye,  my  little 
Aline — now  remember  you  are  going  to  be  a  good,  kind, 
sympathetic  niece. 

Al.     I  will  do  all  I  can,  dear  uncle. 

Darcy.     Goo<i-bye,  Philip,  my  boy. 

Ph.     I  am  coming  with  you. 

Darcy.  Not  to  the  courts,  my  boy,  please  !  —  if  you  are 
going  to  carry  on  this  discoveiy  business,  it  must  be  on 
your  own  account,  and  quite  unofficially — it  would  never  do 
to  have  the  authorities  imagine  that  I  am  employing  my 
nephew  as  a  sort  of  amateur  detective. 

Ph.  No,  uncle,  I  will  not  go  to  the  courts  with  you, 
yet — I  will  bring  no  descredit  on  you,  never  fear. 

Darcy  (laughing,  going  out).  Well,  Aline,  I  hope  you 
believe  in  this  husband  of  yours  as  much  as  he  does  himself  ! 
(To  Ph.)  You  will  let  me  know,  then,  when  you  have 
made  this  famous  discovery  1  will  it  be  within  the  next 
hour  1 

Ph.  (laughing).     Quite  possibly. 

Darcy.  Ha,  ha  !  The  sooner  the  better,  as  far  as  I  am 
concerned,  remember  ! 

\^Exit  Darcy.     Ph.  runs  back  to  kiss  Alhie. 

Al.  Oh,  do  take  care  of  yourself,  Philip  —don't  be 
murdered  too  ! 


The  Public  Prosecutor  63 

rii.  Not  if  I  can  help  it — -if  I  am  I  will  let  you  know  ! 
Silly  child  ! — I  shall  be  back  this  afternoon.         \Exit  Phil. 

Al.  (alone).  It  is  all  very  well  to  laugh  at  me,  and 
call  me  silly  child — ^but  all  the  same  I  can't  bear  his  going 
among  murderers  and  people  of  that  kind  !  What  an 
extraordinary  mania  it  is,  wanting  to  know  who  has  done 
1  hese  things — it  is  much  nicer  not  to  know,  I  think  !  but  then 
Philip  says  women  do  not  understand.  Dear  Philip  !  I 
wish  it  were  time  for  him  to  come  back— how  long  has  he 
been  away  ?  [Looks  at  clock.^  Dear  me,  I  am  afraid  only 
about  three  minutes  as  yet.  How  nice  it  is  to  be  married, 
and  in  love  with  one's  husband  !  Poor  uncle  !  I  dare  say 
he  feels  very  lonely  sometimes.  It  is  hard  he  should  not 
marry  if  he  likes — but  yet  what  a  pity  he' should  just  fix  on 
such  a  horrid  woman  !  I  can't  be  sure  she  is  horrid,  of 
course — but  one  can't  help  feeling  inclined  to  dislike  people 
before  one  knows  them.  And  to  think  she  is  going  to  be 
my  aunt !  What  am  I  to  do  about  going  to  see  her  ?  I 
shall  have  to  do  it,  I  suppose— but  I  really  don't  feel  as  if  I 
could. 

Enter  Servant  with  a  letter. 

Al.     Is  there  any  answer  ? 

Serv.     No,  Madame.  [Exit  Serv. 

Al.  What  a  peculiar  writing  !  I  wonder  whose  it  is  ? 
it  is  not  the  writing  of  anyone  I  know,  or  I  am  quite  sure 
I  should  recognise  it.  It  is  beautiful,  certainly — so  clear 
and  legible,  and  yet  not  in  the  least  stiff — perhaps  the  best 
thing  would  be  to  look  inside  !  !  [Opens  letter — looks  jmzzled 
— turns  to  signature — starts.'\  '  Dora  Lariviere'  !  what,  can 
this  be  her  writing?  I  should  not  have  thought  so.  {Reads) 
'  Madame,  I  venture  to  write  to  you,  although  I  have  not 
the  pleasure  of  knowing  you  yet — we  have  met  often,  but 
as  strangers.  Let  us  become  friends  now — it  would  be  a 
real  and  deep  happiness  to  me.    I  have  told  the  bearer  not  to 


•64  The  Public  Prosecutor 

wait  for  a  reply  to  this  letter — I  will  come  myself  to  learn 
the  answer  from  you.  Forgive  me  for  being  indiscreet 
enough  to  intrude  on  you  unasked.  — Dora  Larivikre.' 
She  is  coming  here  !  What  must  I  do  ?  I  shall  have  to  see 
her,  then.  There  is  no  help  for  it,  I  suppose.  But  as  to 
swearing  eternal  friendship  with  her,  that  is  quite  another 
thing.  Oh,  how  simple  existence  would  be  if  there  were  no 
other  people  in  the  world  besides  one's  self — and  one's 
husband,  of  course  !  \poor  opens,  servant  announces. 

Serv.     Madame  Lariviere  ! 

Al.     What,  already  !  she  has  lost  no  time. 

Enter  Dora.     Aline  bows  stiffly. 

Dora.     I  hope  I  am  not  being  very  indiscreet. 

Al.  (embarrassed).  Not  at  all ;  I — I — am  delighted  ! 
Will  you  not  sit  down  ?  [Dora  sits. 

Al.     It  is  very  warm  to-day,  do  you  not  think  so  ? 

Dora.  Yes,  very — at  least,  no — I  find  it,  on  the  con- 
trary, rather  cold. 

Al.     Ah,  indeed — you  have  been  driving,  perhaps  ? 

Dora.     No,  I  walked  here,  [Pause. 

Dora.     I  have  the  pleasure  of  knowing  your  uncle. 

Al.  Yes.  [Pause."]  (Aside)  What  a  wretch  I  am  being 
— what  is  the  use  of  being  so  ungracious  ?  (Aloud)  He  has 
spoken  to  me  of  you. 

Dora.     Have  you  seen  him  since  last  night  1 

Al.     Yes,  he  was  here  this  morning. 

Dora.     And  he  told  you — that — that  — he — that  I 

Al.     That  you  had  promised  to  be  his  wife — yes. 

Dora.     And  you — what  did  you  say  1 

Al.     I  was  a  little  taken  by  surprise,  I  must  confess. 

Dora.  A  little  taken  by  surprise — and  also,  probably, 
more  than  a  little  horrified  ?  [Al.  is  silent. 

Dora.     Why  should  it  have  been  such  a  surprise,  such 


TJie  Public  Prosecutor  65 

a  blow  to  you  ?  did  you  not  tiiink   your  uncle  would  ever 
marry  ? 

Al.  I  really  had  not  thought  about  it — it  seemed  to  me 
so  utterly  unlikely  to  happen,  that  I  never  considered  the 
subject. 

Dora.  Still,  he  is  not  at  the  age  at  which  a  man  need 
necessarily  remain  a  bachelor. 

Al.  Certainly  not— in  fact,  I  don't  know  that  such  an 
age  is  ever  reached. 

Dora.  Do  not  you  think  that  everyone  is  happier 
married  ? 

Al.     It  is  very  nice  to  be  married,  certainly. 

Dora.  Yes,  you  indeed  are  happy — you  look  as  if  you 
had  never  known  what  it  was  to  be  otherwise — is  that 
not  so  % 

Al.  Yes,  I  must  admit  that  my  life  has  been  a  singularly 
fortunate  and  happy  one. 

Dora.  And  in  consequence,  doubtless,  you  have  a  kind 
of  feeling  that  when  others  are  not  so  happy  they  deserve 
contempt  for  losing  the  chances  life  offers  them  ? 

Al.  No,  indeed — I  feel  pity  for  them — pity — compassion. 

Dora.  Pity  !  compassion  !  yes,  I  know  what  that  means  ! 
the  shadow  cast  by  compassion  is  called — contempt  ! 

Al.  Nay— I  assure  you  I  should  like  everyone  to  be  as 
happy  as  I  am  myself,  if 

Dora  (bitterly).  Provided,  you  would  say,  that  they 
do  not  come  and  disturb  the  quiet  comfort  of  a  well- 
organised  home  !  oh,  I  know  how  pitiless  you  happy  and 
virtuous  women  can  be  to  those  whom  you  tJiink  not  so 
good  as  yourselves  !  You  cannot  realise  that  happiness  is 
as  happy  to  me  at  it  is  to  you — that  to  me  suffering  is  as 
keen — that  for  me  to  give  up  the  joy  and  brightness  of  my 
life  is  as  great  a  sacrifice  as  it  would  be  to  you — no,  you 
know  none  of  these  things,  for  you  have  never  even  btgun 
to  try  to  learn  them  ! 

F 


66  The  Public  Prosecutor 

Al.  You  wrong  me,  you  do  indeed. 
Dora.  How  do  I  wrong  you  ?  Is  it  not  true  that  when 
you  heard  your  uncle  had  asked  me  to  marry  him,  you 
instantly,  without  knowing  me  even,  set  your  face  against 
it  1  Oh,  if  you  knew  how  I  longed  as  I  came  here  to-day 
for  some  kindly  woman's  hand  to  be  stretched  out  to  take 
mine — to  welcome  me  out  of  the  storm  into  the  harbour — 
why  will  you  not  do  it  1 

Al.  Indeed,  indeed,  you  wrong  me.  I  was  unsympa- 
thetic, I  know,  at  first — but  I  was  coming  to  see  you— my 
uncle  asked  me  to  do  so — and  I  did  not  know  you — I  did 

not  realise  that 

Dora.  That  I,  as  well  as  you,  might  be  in  love  1  that 
I  might  be  full  of  joy  in  my  newly-found  happiness,  while 
you  were  calmly  and  judicially  considering  whether  it 
ought  to  be  left  to  me  or  not  ? 

Al.     Forgive  me — I  have  been  hard  and  unjust,  I  feel. 
Dora.     If  you  knew  the  story  of  my  life — how  lonely  I 
have  been — how  lonely   I  am — you  would  not  be  so  hard 
on  me. 

Al.  Tell  me — tell  me  something  about  yourself — I  will 
sympathise  with  you — I  will  indeed. 

Dora.  Oh,  if  you  knew  what  your  sympathy  would  be 
to  me,  in  my  loneliness  !  I  will  tell  you  my  story.  My 
mother,  a  Russian,  died  when  I  was  a  child — my  sister,  a 
year  older  than  I,  and  upon  whom  I  leant  entirely,  died 
after  a  short  illness,  when  she  was  but  eighteen.  I  felt  the 
whole  world  had  changed  for  me.  My  father,  an  enthusi- 
astic lover  of  sports  and  hunting,  was  oppressed  at  having 
the  charge  of  a  girl  of  my  age,  and  encouraged  me  to  marry 
the  first  suitor  who  presented  himself — Armand  Larivifere. 
We  came  to  Paris — I,  a  raw  girl,  was  plunged  into  Paris 
society — my  husband,  I  found,  had  made,  and  still  con- 
tinued to  make,  his  fortune  in  speculations  which  were 
no  better  than  gambling — I  was  giddy  and    thoughtless, 


TJie  Public  Prosecutor  67 

and,  as  may  be  imagined,  could  not  guide  or  steady  him. 
At  last  reverses  came,  and  dishonour — he — he  — put  an  end 
to  his  life,  leaving  me  to  face  the  world,  as  best  I  might, 
alone.  I  went  back  to  Russia — my  father  was  dead — I 
returned  here,  everywhere  overshadowed  by  my  husband's 
name  and  history.  I  met  your  uncle — made  friends  with 
him — he  entreated  me  to  marry  him — can  you  wonder  that 
I  should  now  be  willing  to  assume  the  name  offered  to  me 
by  a  good  and  honourable  man  ? 

Al.  No,  no,  indeed — and  now  you  have  broken  with 
your  past,  you  will  begin  your  life  anew  with  him — you 
will  make  him  happy,  will  you  not  ? — for  he  is  the  noblest 
and  the  best  of  men. 

Dora.     I  know  it — I  am  sure  of  it. 

Al.  He  has  been  to  us  like  a  father — you  cannot 
wonder  that  when  we  see  him  about  to  take  such  a 
momentous  step,  we  should  be  anxious  lest  he  should  not  be 
as  happy  as  he  deserves. 

Dora.     Yes,  yes — I  feel  it — of  course 

Al.  (taking  her  hand).  But,  after  what  you  have  just 
said,  I  am  sure  you  have  a  feeling  heart — that  you  will 
know  how  to  appreciate  his  fine  and  noble  nature.  He  is 
the  very  soul  of  honour — a  man  who  would  be  morbidly 
sensitive  to  the  faintest  shadow  on  his  good  name — oh, 
keep  it  bright  and  unstained  for  him — value  his  upright  and 
noble  character  as  we  do  ! 

Dora  (Aside).  Oh,  what  shall  I  do  ?  I  can  endure  it 
no  longer  !  (Aloud)  Madame  Darcy — but  you  must  promise 
to  keep  my  confidence  sacred — swear  that  you  will  not 
repeat  what  I  am  going  to  say  to  you. 

Al.  But  I  may  tell  my  husband,  of  course  ?  I  always 
tell  him  everything 

Dora,     No,  no — indeed — your  husband  least  of  all  ! 

Al.  Very  Avell,  if  you  wish  it — but  it  will  seem  very 
strange— — 

f3 


68  The  Public  Prosecutor 

Dora.  Listen — you  have  heard  of  the  so-called  crime, 
the  mysterious  crime  that  was  committed  at  the  Opera  % 

Al.  Heard  of  it — indeed  I  have — my  husband  and  my 
uncle  talk  of  nothing  else. 

Dora.  Do  you  know  how  much  they  have  discovered 
yet? 

Al.  (hesitates).  Not  very  much — but  I  don't  think  I 
ought  to  tell  you — or  anyone. 

Dora.  No,  you  are  right,  quite  right — but  I  will  tell 
you  what  I  know — for  I  know  more  than  they  do  ! 

Al.  (starts  back).     You  !  .  .  . 

Dora.  Yes,  I  !  .  .  listen — don't  turn  from  me  till  you 
have  heard  my  story.  Fanny  Duval,  the  wretched  woman — 
who — who — died,  had  come  into  possession  of  a  number  of 
letters,  written  by  other  people  in  former  days  to  a  man  who 
is  now  a  friend  of  hers.     Among  them  were  some  of  mine. 

Al.     Of  yours  !  .  .  . 

Dora.  Yes,  of  mine — girlish,  foolish  letters,  with  abso- 
lutely no  harm  in  them,  except  that  tliey  were  addressed 
to  one  whose  admiration  had  flattered  my  youthful  vanity, 
and  to  whom  I  had  heedlessly  written,  without  a  thought 
of  the  possible  consequences.  The  letters  came  into  the 
possession  of  Madame  Duval. 

Al.  Oh,  that  you  should  have  had  anything  to  do  with 
that  woman  ! 

Dora.  You  shall  hear.  She  came  into  possession  of 
the  letters,  and,  in  order  to  extort  money,  wrote  to  me  that 
she  would  restore  them  to  me  if  I  would  go  myself  to  fetch 
them  at  the  Opera,  where  she  was  to  be  that  night.  I 
thought  only  of  my  anxiety  to  get  them  back — I  felt  that, 
before  I  mariied  your  uncle,  I  must  break  with  the  whole 
of  my  wretched  past— I  went.  She  gave  me  the  letters  — 
/^ave  them  to  me  with  taunting  and  insulting  words.  In 
my  agitation  I  made  a  hasty  step  forward — she  started  back, 
caucrht  her  foot  and  fell   -T  saw    a  shining  thing  in  her 


TJie  Public  Prosecutor  69 

hand  — it  was  a  little  dagger  that  hung  at  her  side  in  a 
slieath,  and  with  which  she  had  been  playing  as  she  talked. 
I  left  her — I  was  thickly  veiled,  so  no  one  had  recognised 
me.  The  next  morning  all  Paris  was  ringing  with  the 
crime  that  had  been  committed  at  the  Opera  the  night 
before,  but  which  was  no  crime — the  mysterious  event  of 
which  I  only  knew  the  secret — and  of  which,  before  God,  T 
have  told  you  the  true  story  now  ! 

Al.  (covering  her  face  with  her  hands).  Oh,  this  is  toj 
horrible  ! 

Dora.  What,  can  it  be  that  you  do  not  believe  me  ? 
that  you  can  think  me  guilty  of — of 

Al.  No,  no — I  believe  you  to  be  innocent  of  that — but 
the  whole  thing  is  so  dreadful — that  you  should  have  been 
there — that  you  should  have  gone  to  that  woman  ! 

Dora'.  Yes,  I  know,  I  feel  it  all — but  oh,  I  have 
suffered  enough  to  expiate  far  more  than  a  mere  girlish 
imprudence. 

Al.  (starting).  Suppose  my  uncle  were  to  find  out  you 
had  been  at  the  Opera  that  evening  %  oh,  what  would 
happen  ?  [Dora  shudders. 

Al.     I  verily  believe  it  would  be  a  death  blow  to  him. 

Dora.  But  he  never  will  know — he  never  need.  Oh, 
keep  my  secret  !  I  told  it  you  because  the  burden  was  too 
great  for  me  to  bear  alone — I  am  very,  very  unhappy  ! 

[Sinks  doivn  by  table,  with  her  face  in  her  hands,  and 
hursts  into  tears. 

Al.  I  am  so  sorry  for  you—  but  I  can  do  nothing  for  you, 
I  feel — nothing 

Dora.  Yes,  you  can  indeed,  if  you  will  only  believe 
in  me— your  sympathy,  your  womanly  support  will  be 
everything — you  make  me  feal  that  my  life  is  still  worth 
enduring ! 

Philip  (outside).  Your  mistress  is  not  gone  out  yet,  I 
suppose  1 


jO  The  Public  Prosecutor 

Al.     There  is  my  husband  ! 
Dora.     Oh,  what  shall  I  do  ? 

Al.  Come  to  my  room,  and  bathe  your  face — I  will  tell 
him  presently  that  you  are  here — that  you  are  not  well. 

\Exeunt  tocj ether. 

Enter  Philip^  huri'iiiVy. 
Ph.     Aline  !  Aline  !  where  are  you  1     Aline  ! 

Enter  Aline. 

Ph.  Aline,  I  have  a  piece  of  such  good  news  for  you  — 
I  cam  on  the  track  !  \^Al.  starts.^  Imagine  my  joy  !  don't 
you  understand  1  I  have  made  a  discovery — 1  am  actually 
on  the  track  of  the  mysteiy  that  has  been  baffling  my  sage 
uncle,  and  the  whole  of  Paris,  for  the  last  month!  Are  you 
not  delighted  ? 

Al.  (nervously).     Yes,  dear  Philip,  yes — indeed — I  am. 

Ph.  You  don't  look  it,  I  must  say!  What  is  the 
matter  ?  you  don't  look  like  yourself—  don't  you  feel  well  1 

Al.     Yes — that  is  I  have  a  headache — a  severe  headache. 

Ph.     It  must  have  come  on  very  suddenly. 

Al.     Yes,  it  did — since  you  left  me. 

Ph.  Poor  darling  !  I  am  so  sorry — but  this  news  will 
do  you  good,  I  am  sure.  I  rushed  oft"  here  at  once,  know- 
ing how  you  would  sympathise  in  my  joy. 

Al.     Of  course,  of  course,  dear  Philip — you  know  I  do. 

[^Looking  at  door. 

Ph.  I  will  tell  you  how  it  was.  I  went  to  the  place 
whore  the  pieces  de  conviction  are — old  Wartel  is  a  great 
friend  of  mine,  and  let  me  in  under  seal  of  secrecy — I  don't 
know  what  my  uncle  would  have  said  if  he  had  known! 
Well,  and  one  of  these  things  was  a  splendid  cloak  with  a 
fur  lining.  I  thought  how  I  should  like  to  have  one  like  it 
for  you  ! 

Al.     Oh,  don't,  Philip ■ 


TJie  Public  Prosecutor  7 1 

Ph.     Why,  what  is  the  matter  with  you  % 

Al.  You  know  how  nervous  it  always  makes  me  to 
hear  about  these  things. 

Ph.  (vexed).  I  should  have  thought  that  when  it  is 
something  which  affects  me  so  nearly  you  could  for  once 
have  put  your  nervousness  aside — you  cannot  have  realised 
how  immensely  important  it  would  be  to  me  and  my  whole 
future  career  if  I,  and  no  one  else,  had  first  got  on  the  track 
of  the  discovery. 

Al.  Yes,  yes — I  quite  understand  it  !  forgive  me,  dear 
Philip— tell  me  the  rest. 

Ph.  Well,  I  was  turning  over  this  fur  cloak,  running 
my  hand  mechanically  over  the  soft  warm  lining,  when  my 
hand  slipped  inside  a  slit  in  the  fur,  and  there  I  found  a 
crumpled-up  letter,  that  had  evidently  slid  into  a  hole 
in  the  lining  by  mistake,  instead  of  the  pocket. 

Al.  A  letter  !  then  was  there  anything  to  show  who 
did — the  murder  % 

Ph.  My  dear  wife!  certainly  women  were  not  cut  out 
for  judicial  inquiries.  You  don't  suppose  that  the  assassin 
wrote  his  victim  a  polite  note,  requesting  the  pleasure  of  her 
company  at  the  Opera  on  such  a  night,  to  be  murdered  ? 
Ha  !  ha  !  no,  that  is  not  how  those  things  are  done,  I 
fancy. 

Al.  (shuddering).  Don't,  Philip,  don't — you  should 
not  laugh  at  those  horrible  things. 

Ph.  My  dear  girl,  I  am  quite  willing  to  admit  that  the 
whole  thing  is  very  shocking  and  so  on — still  I  believe 
that  everyone  agrees  that  the  poor  creature  who  died  is  no 
great  loss  to  society,  and  probably  it  will  be  found  that  she 
who  did  the  deed — for  I  mean  to  find  her,  I  can  tell  you— 
was  not  much  better. 

Al.  (with  emotion).  Ah,  how  can  you  know — how 
can  you  tell  the  history  of  the  woman  who  has  such  a 
horrible  misfortune  on  her  conscience  % 


72  The  Public  Prosecutor 

Ph.  Misfortune  !  well,  that  is  a  polite  way  of  putting 
it,  certainly — it  was  a  contretemps  which  I  fancy  might 
have  been  avoided. 

Al.  But  how  do  you  know  that  the  woman  who  did  it, 
or  rather  who  is  supposed  to  have  done  it,  did  it  intention- 
ally ? 

Ph.  (stares  at  her).  My  dear  little  wife,  you  have 
encouraged  yourself  in  these  nervous  apprehensions  about 
crimes,  and  so  on,  till  you  are  ready  to  work  yourself  into 
all  kinds  of  imaginations  about  them.  A  murder  is  not  a 
thing  that  one  can  commonly  do  from  an  oversight — 
})eople  don't  generally  drop  a  corpse  in  an  opera  box  with- 
out noticing  it,  as  they  would  a  pocket-handkerchief.  No, 
no,  depend  on  it,  criminals  are  not  such  an  ill-used  class  as 
you  seem  to  think — and  I  am  sure  that  when  all  this  affair 
is  brought  to  the  light  of  day,  as  I  mean  it  to  be,  even  your 
sympathies  will  not  be  with  the  culprit. 

Al.  (with  an  effort).     Does  your  uncle  know  ? 

Ph.  Of  what  I  have  found,  do  you  mean  ?  no,  he  does 
not  yet — but  I  have  sent  him  an  urgent  note,  asking  him  if 
he  can  come  here  in  the  midday  interval,  as  I  have  some- 
thing important  to  communicate  to  him.  I  did  not  like  to 
take  it  to  him  to  the  palace,  after  what  he  said  this  morn- 
ing, as  he  does  not  want  the  fact  of  his  nephew's  investiga- 
tions to  be  made  public.  And  I  did  not  like  to  meet  him 
out  of  doors  anywhere,  as  I  feel  this  is  so  tremendous  it 
ought  only  to  be  discussed  within  four  walls  ! 

\Takes  a  paper  from  his  jjocket.     Aline  looks  at  it, 
and  gives  a  cry. 

Ph.     Aline,  what  is  the  meaning  of  all  this  ? 

Al.  It  is  only  that — that — I  was  agitated  at  seeing  the 
letter  found  in  such  a  place. 

Ph.  Upon  my  word  !  I  should  have  thought  you  were 
above  these  typical  absurdities  of  women  ! 

\Al.  draws  her  handkerchief  out  to  put  it  to  her  eyes — 


The  Public  Prosecutor  y^ 

the  letter  from  Dora  drops  to  the  ground — shfi, 
snatches  at  it — Ph.  2)icks  it  up  without  looking  at 
it,  and  holds  it  jjlay/idly  behind  him. 

Ph.  Now,  what  will  you  give  me,  if  I  give  you  back 
your  dear  billet  doux  1  Only  see  what  a  model  husband  I 
am  !  I  don't  even  look  to  see  whose  writing  it  is  !  There  is 
this  to  be  said,  that  you  generally  insist  on  my  reading  all 
the  effusions  you  receive  from  your  dear  friends,  which  has 
given  me  rather  a  distaste  for  them — like  the  girls  in  the 
confectioners'  shops,  who  are  allowed  to  eat  bonbons  till 
they  won't  look  at  another.  Come,  give  me  a  kiss,  and  you 
shall  have  it. 

Al.  Very  well.  [^Kisses  him  hurriedly.^  Don't  tease 
me,  Philip. 

Ph.  Good  girl — here  it  is  then  !  Why,  you  silly  child  ! 
your  hands  are  trembling  !  let  me  put  it  into  your  pocket 
for  you  \^As  he  puts  it  in  he  sees  the  writing  on  the  envelope 
and  starts] — ^why — stay  ! — where  have  I  seen  that  writing 
before  ?  Why — good  heavens  ! — Aline — from  whom  is  this 
letter  ? 

Al.  You  said  just  now  you  did  not  want  to  know — 
give  it  to  me — give  me  my  letter. 

Ph.  Aline,  what  does  this  mean  ?  I  am  not  violating 
your  confidence,  as  you  may  see — I  have  seen  but  the 
envelope,  not  the  contents  of  your  letter — but  this  is  too 
important  a  coincidence  not  to  be  explained.  Look  at 
those  two  letters — look  at  them  ! 

Al.  (faintly).  I  don't  want  to  see  them — you  know  I 
told  you  I  can't  bear  to  see  that  kind  of  thing. 

Ph.  Nay,  this  is  too  serious  to  put  me  off  with  a  whim 
— you  must  look  at  those  two  letters  side  by  side — one  that 
was  found  in  the  murdered  woman's  cloak,  and  one  that  has 
just  fallen  out  of  your  own  pocket — look  at  them,  and  ex- 
plain to  me  how  it  is  that  the  handwriting  is  the  same  on 
both! 


74  The  Public  Prosecutor 

Al.     I  cannot — I  cannot. 

Ph.  You  cannot  %  Great  God  !  am  I  maJ  %  Aline  — 
Aline — what  can  you,  my  wife,  have  to  do  with  this 
horrible  business  ?  what  can  you  possibly  have  to  do 
with  it  ?  \Al.  is  aileiit. 

Ph.  This,  then,  was  the  reason  of  your  agitation  when 
I  came  in  and  told  you  of  my  discovery — when  you  saw  the 
writing  on  the  letter  !  What  does  it  all  mean  ?  Aline,  my 
wife,  tell  me — I  insist  upon  knowing — who  wrote  that 
letter  in  your  hand  1 

[Dora  has  entered  during  the  last  sentence. 

Dora.     I  did. 

Ph.  Madame  Lariviere  !  !  .  .  I  did  not  know  you  were 
here  — still  less  could  I  have  imagined  that  my  wife  knew  of 
your  presence  at  our  interview,  without  telling  me. 

AL  (imploringly).     Philip  ! 

Ph.  (sternly).  Aline,  perhaps  you  will  be  good  enough 
to  explain  the  mysteries  and  conspiracies  you  have  suddenly 
taken  to  indulging  in,  and  by  which,  I  must  confess,  I  am 
a  good  deal  bewildered. 

Dora.  It  is  not  your  wife's  fault,  Monsieur  Darcy,  that 
she  has  been  led  into  a  mystery — it  is  mine. 

Ph.  Then  it  is  you  apparently,  Madame  Lariviere,  that 
I  must  ask  for  an  explanation  of  what  certainly  needs  most 
urgently  to  be  explained — this  letter  to  my  wife,  you  say, 
is  in  your  handwriting  ? 

Dora.     It  is. 

Ph.  And  this  other  one,  then,  which  appears  to  be 
exactly  like  it — is  that  yours  also  ? 

Dora.  The  other  ?  .  .  [Ajyproaches,  looks  at  it,  and  start  ] 
— yes — yes,  it  is — where  did  you  find  that  letter?  it  is  mine 
— oh,  give  it  me  back  ! 

Ph.  Nay,  I  am  afraid  I  cannot  do  that,  considering 
the  circumstances  under  which  it  was  found. 

Dora.     Where  was  it  found  ? 


TJie  Public  Prosecutor  7  5 

PA.  Inside  the  lining  of  a  cloak,  where  it  had  slipped 
by  mistake — a  cloak  belonging  to  Madame  Duval,  who  was 
murdered  at  the  Opera  on  March  20. 

Dora.     Good  heavens  !  I  am  lost,  then  ! 

\C overs  lierface  tuith  Iter  hands. 

Ph.     Lost  !  .  .  .  what  does  this  mean  ? 

Al.     Oh,  Philip,  do  not  be  cruel  ! 

Fh.  Cruel!  .  .  I  am  not  cruel  that  I  know  of — but  this 
has  gone  too  far  now  to  go  back — I  must  have  this 
explained. 

Al.  Oh,  Philip — it  was  not  her  fault— it  was  not  in- 
deed ! 

Ph.  What  was  not  her  fault  1  Madame  Larivifere,  I 
must  ask  you  most  solemnly  and  earnestly  to  explain  how 
it  was  that  a  letter  in  your  handwriting  came  to  be  found 
in  such  a  place  ? 

Dora.  I  will  tell  you  all  there  is  to  tell — you  shall 
know  everything. 

Ph.     I  shall  be  much  obliged. 

Dora.     Your  wife  knows  already 

Al.  Oh,  yes,  Philip,  she  has  told  me — and  I  quite 
understand  how  it  was. 

Ph.  Dear  AUne,  let  Madame  Lariviere  tell  her  own 
story. 

Dora  (with  an  effort).  I  will.  The  letter  of  which 
that  is  a  fragment  is  one  of  several  which  I  wrote  years 
ago,  to  one  of  my  male  acquaintance.  They  were  such 
letters  as  a  young  married  woman  might  write,  without  a 
thought  of  harm. 

Al.     Yes,  indeed— oh,  Philip,  you  will  see 

Dora.  We  were  on  terms  of  easy  camaraderie — he 
called  me  by  my  name  and  I  him  by  his,  in  a  way  which  to 
me  then  seemed  natural  enough,  but  v/hich  I  know  now 
would  be  disapproved  of  in  more  decorous  society.  Enough 
— I  lost  sight  of  him  and  of  all  the  people  I  had  known — ior 


"j^  The  Public  Prosecutor 

my  husband  died — I   left  Paris,  and  was  thrown  on  the 
world  alone. 

Al.     Oh,  Philip,  think  if  I  were  thrown  on  the  world 
alone,  without  you  !  \Fh.  is  silent. 

Dora.     I  have  told  your  wife  all  this  story  already. 

Fh.    All  the  same,  I  must  ask  you  to  repeat  it  to  me — 
it  is  absolutely  essential  that  I  should  know  it. 

Dora.  I  came  back  at  length  to  Paris.  I  made  friends 
with — with — your  uncle,  the  best  and  most  honourable  of 
men — for  his  sake,  I  regretted  the  associations  of  my 
youth,  the  adventurers  among  whom  my  lot  had  been  cast. 
Sheltered  by  his  love,  I  looked  forward  to  beginning  my 
life  again,  to  enjoying  tranquillity  and  peace  where  I  had 
oidy  known  a  precarious  and  adventurous  existence.  I  had 
known  Fanny  Duval  years  ago,  wlien  I  first  came  to  Paris, 
but  I  had  never  liked  her.  The  other  day  I  at  last  met  her 
again,  when  I  was  witli  your  uncle.  She  advanced,  smiling, 
to  claim  my  acquaintance — I  was  foolish  enough  to  receive 
her  with  marked  coldness — foolish,  inasmuch  as  I  did  not 
realise  that  I  might  be  making  a  deadly  enemy  of  her. 
She  took  her  revenge  !  she  wrote  to  me  that  evening,  saying 
that  she  had  found  some  letters  of  mine  among  the  papers 
of  a  man  we  both  knew,  and  that  she  would  enclose  them  the 
next  day  to  your  uncle,  Monsieur  Darcy,  unless  I  would  go 
that  same  evening  to  the  Opera,  to  beg  them  humbly  from 
her  myself.  I  went,  in  order  that  no  trace  of  my  past  might 
remain  to  cast  its  shadow  on  my  future— if  I  had  had 
time  to  think,  I  should  have  gone  straight  to  your  uncle 
instead,  and  told  him  the  whole  story.  I  humbled  myself 
by  asking  her  for  the  letters  — she  drew  the  packet  from  her 
cloak,  and  gave  them  to  me  with  words  of  mocking  con- 
gratulation— I  started  forward  angrily — she  drew  back — 
as  she  did  so  she  fell,  I  thought  fainting — and  I  left  her. 

Al.     There   now,  you    see,    Philip — everything    is    ex- 
plained. 


The  Public  Prosecutor  yy 

Ph.  Hardly,  it  seems  to  me.  Do  you  mean  to  say 
that  you  left  her  lying  there  alone,  without  an  attempt  to 
summon  help  1 

Dora.  I  thought  she  was  only  fainting,  or  even  pre- 
tending to  faint — and  that  in  a  moment  she  M'ould  recover — 
my  one  idea  was  to  get  away  without  being  seen— and  I 
succeeded  in  doing  so,  as  the  play  was  going  on,  and  the 
passages  were  empty.  I  then  made  up  my  mind  that  the 
next  morning  I  would  tell  your  uncle  the  whole  story. 
When  the  morning  came  it  was  too  late — I  learnt,  to  my 
horror,  from  the  papers  that  the  unhappy  woman  had  been 
found  dead  where  I  left  her. 

Al.     Now  you  understand  it  all,  Philip — don't  you  ? 

[^Anxiously. 
Ph.  (pointedly).  No,  I  cannot  say  ihat  I  do  as  yet — I 
heard  \to  Dora]  that  she  had  died  of  a  wound  in  her  chest, 
supposed  to  have  been  inflicted  by  some  sharp  instrument, 
which  was  afterwards  found  on  the  ground  near  her — how 
do  you  account  for  that  ? 

Dora.  She  must  have  fallen  on  the  edge  of  a  beautiful 
little  jewelled  dagger  she  always  wore,  which  hung  at  her 
side,  and  with  which  she  had  been  mechanically  playing, 
pulling  it  up  and  down  as  she  talked. 

[A  moment's  silence. 
Ph.     Madame  Lariviere,  you  must  see  that  it  is  im- 
possible for  me  to  keep  the  story  you  have  just  told  me,  to 
myself — it  is  of   the  gravest   importance   that   my  uncle 
should  know  it  at  once. 

Dora.     Your  uncle  !  .   .  .  Oh,  no — no  ! 
Al.     Oh,  Philip  ! 

Ph.  That  he  should  hear  it,  just  as  you  have  told  it  to 
me  ! 

Dora.  Oh,  think  what  that  means  to  me — think  what 
a  sentence  of  banishment — of  death— you  are  pronouncing 
on  my  life  !  [Ph.  is  silent. 


78  TJie  Public  Prosecutor 

Dora.  Think  of  my  marriage — of  the  happy  life,  the 
peace  and  slielter  opening  before  me — of  his  happiness  too, 
whicli  you  will  destroy  ! 

Ph.  Yes,  I  think  of  it  all — and  your  words  make  my 
duty  doubly  hard  for  me. 

Dora.  Duty  !  and  to  that  grim,  pitiless  abstraction 
you  would  sacrifice  your  uncle's  whole  life,  as  well  as 
mine  ! 

Ph.  Nay,  as  for  my  uncle,  remember  that  you  are 
ready  to  sacrifice  him  also — for  you  would  darken  his 
existence  with  the  shadow  of  your  own  disgrace. 

\Darcy  has  opened  the  door  unperceived  by  the  other's, 
and  overhears  the  last  sentence. 

Darcy.  Philip  !  is  it  possible  that  you  are  addressing 
those  words  to  Madame  Lariviere  ?  What  does  this 
mean  ? 

Ph.  (gravely).  Ask  Madame  Lariviere  herself  what  it 
means. 

Darcy  (with  respectful  tenderness,  looking  at  Dora,  who 
is  leaning  against  the  table,  struggling  with  her  emotion). 
No,  I  am  not  going  to  ask  Madame  Lariviere  for  the  ex- 
planation of  the  insults  which  I  have  heard. 

Dora  (with  emotion).  Ah,  you  are  the  most  generous 
of  men  ! 

Ph.     Uncle,  I  do  not  deserve  your  reproaches 

Darcy  (coldly).  Let  us  pass  to  the  matter  in  hand. 
You  have  sent  for  me,  I  understood,  on  urgent  business. 

Ph.  (with  an  effort).  Yes,  I  had  made  an  important 
discovery  concerning  the  crime  committed  at  the  Opera — 
but  since  .   .  .  \^Ue  hesitates. 

Darcy  (coldly).  Since,  you  have  found  that  the  im- 
portant discovery  comes  to  nothing  ?  that  does  not  surprise 
me — I  never  had  much  faith  in  your  investigations. 

Ph.  (slowly).  No — it  is  that— that  the  discovery  is  yet 
more  important  than  I  thought. 


TJie  Public  Prosecutor  79 

Darcy  (be^\  ildered).     More  important  ? 

\He  looks  from  one  to  the  other.  Philip's  eyes  are 
cast  down,  Dora  hides  her  face,  in  her  hands. 
Darcy  (speaks  with  increasing  emotion).  Philip,  Dora — 
what  is  this  mystery  1  Your  manner  leads  me  to  suppose 
tliat — that — no,  it  cannot  be  !  the  thought  is  too  horrible 
Dora — oh,  speak  !  the  discovery  cannot  be  connected  with — 
with  you  1 

Dora.     It  is. 
Darcy.     Good  God  ! 

Ph.     This  paper  was  found  inside  the  murdered  woman' 
cloak. 

Darcy  (looks  at  it).     Ah  !  ! 

[//e  sinks  into  a  chair  by  the  table,  utterly  overcome, 
his  head  on  his  folded  arms. 
Dora  goes  sadly  out.     As  she  reaches  the  door  she  toys 
softly  Good-bye — for  ever  ! 

Curtain. 


8o 


A  WOMAN   OF   CULTURE 

COMEDIETTA    IN  ONE  ACT. 

CHARACTERS. 

Mrs.  Chester,  a  j'oung  widow— a  woman  of  culture. 

Evelyn  BARitiNGTON,  her  N\ard. 

Mrs.  Symonds. 

Major  Symonds,  one  of  Evelyn's  guardians. 

Herbert  Bandford,  a  rising  barrister. 

Time.— July  1885. 

Scene. — Mrs.  Chester's  drawing-room  in  Brook  Street, 
well  furnished.  A  great  many  books  and  pa])ers  about. 
Door  at  back.,  E.G.  Writing-table  at  back,  L.C.,  covered 
v'ith  papers — the  table  stands  at  right  angles  to  the  wall, 
and  in  such  a  way  that  tlie  face  of  the  person  tvriting  is 
turned  from  the  door.  Chairs  R.  and  L.  of  ivriting- 
table.  Sofa  in  front,  R.,  parallel  to  side  wall.  Table 
R.C.  Chair  L.  of  table.  Table  L.  against  wall,  with 
bookstand  on  it.     Chair  or  divan  L.C.,  &c.  &c. 

Enter  Major  Symonds  and  Evelyn,  from  a  walk. 

Maj.  S.  (looking  round).     No  one  here  ! 

Evel.     Aunt  Diana  is  out,  I  suppose  ? 

Maj.  S.  She  is  probably  addressing  the  electors  some- 
where. 

Evel.  (laughing).  Now,  Uncle  John,  for  shame  !  you 
know  you  mustn't  say  that  kind  of  thing  here. 


A  Woman  of  Culture  8 1 

J/a/.  S.  What,  do  people  never  talk  nonsense  in  Mrs. 
Chester's  house  % 

Evel.  (laughing).     Never  ! 

Maj.  S.  Ahem  ! — how  do  yoio  get  on  then  ?  what 
about  all  the  jokes  we've  been  having  during  our  walk,  eh  1 
we  must  take  care  not  to  repeat  any  of  them  here  !  We 
have  had  a  very  pleasant  afternoon  together,  my  dear — 
and  I'm  very  much  obliged  to  you  for  taking  me  out 
though  you  liave  nearly  given  me  brain  fever  by  dragging 
me  through  the  Inventions  Exhibition  ! 

Evel.  Dear,  dear  uncle  !  how  I  wish  I  were  going 
back  to  Lowndes  Square  with  you,  instead  of  staying  here  ! 

Maj.  S.  Why,  what  nonsense,  my  little  girl  !  you 
don't  seem  to  value  your  privileges  in  having  such  a  clever 
woman  as  your  aunt,  Mrs.  Chester,  for  your  guardian — 
you  will  be  much  better  off  staying  here  with  her  than  you 
would  be  with  humdrum  folks  like  us. 

Evel.  Oh,  no,  Uncle  John,  indeed  I  shan't.  Aunt 
Diana  is  very  kind,  of  course — and  I'm  sure  she  wants  to 
do  me  all  the  good  in  the  world 

Maj.  S.     Tliat  must  be  rather  trying. 

Evel.  But  oh,  she  is  so  clever,  and  so  serious,  and  so 
terribly  in  earnest  about  everything,  and  so  are  her  friends  ! 
They  none  of  them  wiH  talk  to  me,  you  know,  because  I 
am  so  stupid  and  ignorant. 

Maj.  S.  That  is  their  loss,  then,  my  darling,  I'm  sure, 
not  yours.  Conversation  with  these  argumentative  people 
is  like  trying  to  walk  along  a  road,  and  being  pulled  up  at 
every  dozen  yards  by  a  prickly  hedge — you  get  through  it 
and  over  it,  somehow — but  you  are  very  much  scratclietl 
before  you  get  to  your  journey's  end. 

Evel.  Except — except  Mr.  Sandford — he  is  very  nice, 
and— and — I  think  he  likes  talking  to  me — but  Aunt. 
Diana  won't  let  him. 

Maj.  S.     Why  not  ] 

G 


82  A   Woman  of  Culture 

Evel.  Because  she  doesn't  like  him  to  waste  his  time  ! 
So  she  sends  me  away,  and  then  she  talks  to  him  about 
ai't,  and  religion,  and  evolution,  and  ever  so  many  other 
elevated  subjects  ! 

Maj.  S.  Why  don't  you  learn  to  talk  about  them  too, 
then? 

Evel.  Oh,  because  I  couldn't !  I  don't  know  anything 
about  Art — Ambulance  classes  make  me  feel  sick,  and  so 
does  Vivisection — and  I  don't  understand  Redistribution 
or  Women's  Suffrage — and  Sanitaiy  Dustbins,  and  Over- 
crowding, are  dirty  and  horrid.  And  as  for  the  last  thing 
my  Aunt  has  taken  up,  the  Pyc — Phys — Pish — Psychical 
Society,  it  frightens  me  nearly  to  death  only  to  think  of 
it  !  Would  you  believe  that  she  is  busy  collecting  one 
thousand  well -authenticated  ghost  stories  ! 

Maj.  S.  Ha,  ha,  ha  !  then  that  is  why  she  asked  me 
so  anxiously  yesterday  if  I  had  ever  seen  an  apparition — 
and  was  quite  disappointed  when  I  said  I  had  never  had 
the  slightest  symptom  of  one  !  It  is  too  absurd  that  she 
and  all  the  other  members  of  the  society  should  go  about 
saying  to  people,  'Put  out  your  tongue  and  let's  see  if 
there's  a  ghost  on  it ! ' 

Evel.  (in  fits  of  laughter).  Oh,  Uncle  John,  if  Aunt 
Diana  heard  you,  what  would  she  say  ? 

Maj.  S.  The  fact  is,  Mrs.  Chester  wants  some  one  to 
look  after  her — she  was  a  very  delightful  woman  before 
her  husband  died,  when  she  had  a  sensible  male  mind  to 
prevent  her  from  taking  up  all  these  follies. 

Evel.  They  are  rather  trying,  certainly,  at  times. 
Uncle — I'll  tell  you  a  great  secret — I  wish  she  were  not 
my  guardian  at  all  ! 

Maj.  S.  (pretending  to  be  shocked).  Evelyn  !  you 
horrify  me  ! 

Evel.  I  don't  care — I  want  to  have  only  you  for  my 
guardian,  you  dear  old  uncle,  nobody  else  ! 


A    Woman  of  Culture  %7^ 

Maj.  S.  Very  well,  then,  I'll  tell  you  a  great  secret — 
Mrs.  Chester  does  not  want  to  be  your  guardian  either — 
she  told  me  so  the  other  day  ! 

£veL     Oh,  how  horrid  of  her  ! 

Maj.  S.  Well,  upon  my  word,  I  don't  see  that.  It 
isn't  nearly  as  horrid  of  her  as  it  is  of  you,  you  heartless, 
perverse,  ungrateful  little  girl  ! 

Uvel.  Oh,  uncle,  do  tell  me  about  it  !  am  I  not  going 
to  live  here  then,  but  to  live  with  you  always  ?  how  nice  ! 
and  we'll  ride  in  the  Park,  and  read  novels,  and  go  to  the 
theatre,  and  waste  our  time  the  whole  day  long  !  what 
fun  we  shall  have  ! 

3faJ.  ^.  My  dear,  you  must  have  a  little  mercy  on 
me  !  Pity  the  pleasures  of  a  poor  old  man  !  Besides, 
what  would  your  Aunt  Diana  say  to  such  a  programme  ? 

£vel.  (joyfully).  She  won't  have  anything  to  do  with 
it  !  \_Claps  her  hands  and  dances  for  joy,  then  sto2)s 

abruptly  as  door  opens. 

£nter  Mrs.  Chester,  with  papers  in  her  hand. 

Evel.  (embarrassed).  Oh,  Aunt  Diana — you  are  not 
out  ?  you  are  at  home,  then  ? 

Mrs.  C.  Yes,  I  am  at  home,  as  you  may  see — that 
seems  an  obvious  and  somewhat  unnecessary  remark  of 
yours.  I  was  receiving  a  deputation  in  the  library,  whence 
I  heard — and  they  heard — \severely'\ — your  shrieks  of 
laughter  just  now. 

Evel.     I  am  so  sorry,  aunt. 

Maj.  S.  Did  we  disturb  the  deputation  1  was  it  a 
nervous  one  ? 

Mrs.  C.  No,  as  it  happens,  you  did  not  disturb  them, 
as  fortunately  they  were  just  taking  leave  of  me.  Other- 
wise, sounds  of  shrill  mirth,  not  to  say  giggling,  are  not 
favourable  to  the  consideration  of  serious  questions. 

[Goes  to  writing-table,  to  put  down  paqiers. 

g2 


84  ^   Woman  of  Culture 

Maj.  S.  (aside  to  Evelyn).   I  feel  crushed — I'm  going  ! 

£!vel.  (aside  to  Maj.  S).     No,  no— pray  don't  ! 

Mrs.  C.  (turning  over  papers).  Major  Symonds,  before 
you  go,  I  just  wanted  to  ask  you  about  a  case  I  am  inte- 
rested in.  (Searching)  I  wonder  where  those  papers  on 
the  Welfare  of  the  Blind  have  been  put  ?  Dear  me,  here 
they  are  with  the  Bluebooks  on  Egypt — how  very  stupid 
of  the  maids  !  [Comes  forward  to  Maj.  S.^  I  suppose  you 
don't  happen  to  want  a  servant  1 

Maj.  S.     What  sort  of  one  1 

Mrs.  C.  Well — this  man  is  blind —  but  it  is  really  his 
only  drawback. 

Maj.  jS.  Oh,  indeed  !  thank  you,  no — not  just  at  this 
moment.  I  have  as  many  blind  servants  as  I  want  already, 
thank  you — at  least  they  have  all  the  ordinary  symptoms 
(jf  blindness,  as  they  never  see  anything  they  look  for,  or 
discover  when  a  button  is  missing,  or  when  my  white  ties 
are  not  ironed  straight ! 

[Evel.  laughs — Mrs.  C.  looks  at  her  severely. 

Mrs.  C.  This  man  is  very  clever  with  his  hands,  I 
assure  you,  in  spite  of  his  blindness — he  was  once  a 
brushmaker  and  weaver,  but  now  he  wants  to  go  into 
domestic  service. 

Maj.  S.  Well,  it  is  very  good  of  you  to  have  thought 
of  me,  but  T  generally  find  that  when  people  recommend 
their  proteges  to  me,  it  is  more  from  a  consideration  of 
their  wants  than  of  mine.  I  remember  one  protege  of 
yours  that  I  took  in,  who  was  supposed  to  be  in  delicate 
health,  and  only  to  require  rest  and  a  comfortaljle  home. 
He  recovered  so  quickly  under  my  care,  that  the  night  after 
he  came  he  was  able  to  sit  up  and  see  a  few  friends — with 
whom,  and  some  of  my  forks,  he  departed  in  a  state  of 
inebriation,  at  two  o'clock  in  the  morning. 

Mrs.  C.  Ah,  I  I'emember.  Yes,  I  happened  to  be  mis- 
taken in  that  man,  certainly — but  of   course  everyone  is 


A   Woman  of  Culture  85 

liable  to  be  mistaken  at  times,  though  I  must  admit  it  does 
not  very  often  happen  to  me. 

Maj.  *S'.  Besides,  I  would  rather  not  have  my  brushes 
made  by  a  blind  man,  thank  jou.  He'd  be  putting  the 
bristles  into  the  wrong  place,  the  handle  or  somewhere,  I 
know  !  [  Winks  at  Evelyn. 

Evel.  (giggling).     Oh,  uncle,  how  can  you  ? 

Mrs.  C.  (impatiently).  Hadn't  you  better  go  and  take 
off  your  things,  Evelyn,  and  then  get  something  to  do  ? 
There  is  no  greater  waste  of  time  than  to  dawdle  about  with 
your  bonnet  on.  It  is  quite  impossible  to  settle  to  any 
serious  occupation  in  a  bonnet. 

Evel.  Very  well,  Aunt  Diana.  (Aside  to  Maj.  S.  as  she 
passes)  Try  to  find  out  about  our  secret,  mind — don't  for- 
get. [Exit  Evelyn. 

Maj.  S.  (looking  after  her  with  a  smile).  I  must  say, 
I  can't  fancy  my  little  Evelyn  sitting  down  to  any  very 
serious  occupation,  either  with  a  bonnet  or  without  one. 

Mrs.  C.  No,  it  is  wdiat  is  inside  her  head,  not  outside, 
that  is  the  obstacle.  I  fear  she  is  deplorably  shallow  and 
frivolous. 

Maj.  S.  Do  you  think  so  1  She  seems  to  me  to  be  one 
of  the  most  charming  girls  I  have  ever  met. 

Mrs.  C.  Indeed  ?  I  am  afraid  then  that  you  have 
been  unfortunate  in  your  female  acquaintance.  She 
seems  to  me,  on  the  contrary,  Just  like  a  hundred  other 
girls  you  may  meet  with  on  a  summer's  day. 

Maj.  S.  That  is  the  kind  of  summer's  day  I  should 
enjoy — I  should  like  to  meet  a  hundred  girls  like  her,  very 
much. 

Mrs.  C.  Because  you  are  the  sort  of  man  who  thinks 
any  woman  charming  if  only  she  smiles  and  simpers  sweetly 
when  she  is  spoken  to,  and  agrees  with  everything  that  is 
said  to  her. 

Maj.  K>.     I  quite  admit  it.     I  don't  like  those  set-you- 


86  A   Woman  of  Culture 

down,  advise-you-what-to-do  young  women,  of  which  there 
jire  so  many  in  the  world  nowadays.  I'm  sure  I  don't 
know  where  they  all  come  from.  Such  things  were  never 
heard  of  when  I  was  young.  It  is  like  one  of  these  newly- 
discovered  diseases,  unknown  to  our  forefathers — an 
epidemic  of  universal  wisdom,  to  which  the  young  are 
especially  liable  !  ha,  ha  !  \Mrs.  C.  remains  grave. 

Mrs.  C  I  wonder  that  Evelyn's  parents,  who  in  some 
things  were  sensible  enough,  should  have  chosen  for  the 
joint  guardians  of  their  child  two  people  of  such  entirely 
opposite  views  as  you  and  myself,  just  because  you  happened 
to  be  her  mother's  brother,  and  I  her  father's  sister — espe- 
cially with  the  absurd  proviso,  that  for  any  decisive  act  in 
her  life  she  should  require  the  consent  of  both  of  us. 

Maj.  S.  Yes,  it  is  unfortunate — that  might  prove  an 
awkward  condition,  certainly.  (Aside)  Especially  with 
regard  to  Sandford  ! 

Mrs.  C.  But,  after  all,  I  dare  say  it  will  not  matter 
much — for  if  the  occasion  were  to  arise,  I  suppose  I  should 
be  able  to  convert  you  to  my  opinion. 

Maj.  S.     Or  perhaps  I  to  bring  you  over  to  mine  ! 

Mrs.  C.  No,  I  hardly  think  that  is  likely,  as  mine 
would  probably  be  the  right,  one. 

3£aj.  S.  (aside).  There  is  nothing  like  a  modest  self-con- 
lidence  to  help  one  on  in  the  world  !  (Aloud)  By  the  way, 
Mrs.  Chester,  did  you  not  ask  me  the  other  day  whether, 
after  having  assumed  the  office  of  guardian,  it  would  be 
possible  to  give  it  up  1 

Mrs.  C.  (indifferently).  Did  1 1  Yes,  I  remember  now 
that  I  did.     What  about  it  1 

Maj.  S.  (with  assumed  unconcern).  Oh,  only  that  as  1 
happened  to  be  calling  on  Mr.  Deeds,  in  Lincoln's  Inn,  the 
other  day,  I  asked  him  about  the  matter — and  he  said  there 
would  not  be  the  slightest  difficulty.     So  I  begged  him  to 


A  Woman  of  Culture  87 

draw  up  the  document,  which  now  only  needs  your  signa- 
ture, and  I  brought  it  with  me  to-day  to  show  you. 

Mrs.  C.  Ah,  indeed,  thank  you — but  I  almost  think 
we  had  better  leave  things  as  they  are.  I  don't  think  for 
Evelyn's  sake  that  I  ought  to  give  it  up,  though  I  must  say 
I  despair  of  ever  making  anything  of  her. 

Maj.  S.  Just  as  you  think  best,  of  course.  (Aside)  I 
must  not  show  her  how  anxious  I  am,  or  she  will  not  do  it  ! 
(Aloud)  But  I  should  have  thought  that  with  your  manifold 
occupations  .  .  . 

Mrs.  C.  Yes,  it  is  very  inconvenient.  The  fact  is,  that 
it  was  quite  absurd  making  me  her  guardian  at  all,  when 
one  thinks  of  the  numbers  of  idle  women  there  are  in  the 
world,  without  an  idea  beyond  matchmaking,  who  would 
have  been  too  delighted  to  have  taken  charge  of  a  common- 
place girl  like  Evelyn. 

Maj.  S.  (aside).  Upon  my  word  !  (Aloud)  Well,  my 
wife  and  I  fulfil  those  conditions.  We  are  idle — we  have 
no  ideas,  to  speak  of — we  are  commonplace — and  we  shall 
be  delighted  to  take  charge  of  Evelyn  !     Eh  ?  ha,  ha  ] 

Mrs.  C.  (calmly).     Yes,  I  know  all  that. 

Maj.  S.  (nettled).     Oh,  you  do,  do  you  ? 

2Irs.  C.  But  I  doubt  if  I  could  reconcile  it  to  my 
conscience  to  leave  Evelyn  entirely  to  your  care. 

J/q/.  aS'.  (aside).  Whew?  .  .  .  That's  rather  a  heavy  line 
to  take  !     (Aloud)  May  I  ask  why  ? 

Mrs.  C.  Because  I  fear  that — you  must  pardon  me  for 
saying  so — you  have  no  lofty  ideals,  no  progressive  views, 
no  ardent  convi3tions,  no  desire  to  convert  and  improve 
the  world,  no  comprehensive  scheme  of  existence 

Maj.  S.  I  beg  your  pardon — I  have  a  very  definite 
scheme  of  existence  indeed,  as  far  as  Evelyn  is  concerned.  I 
hope  she  will  marry  some  nice  young  fellow,  upright  and 
honourable,  with  money  enough  to  make  her  comfortable  and 


88  A  Woman  of  Culture 

give  her  as  many  new  clothes  as  she  wants — who  will  adore 
her,  and  make  her  as  happy  as  she  deserves  to  be. 

Mrs.  C.  Well — (with  a  sigh) — I  suppose  after  all  she  is 
fit  for  nothing  higher. 

Maj.  S.  Here  is  the  deed  I  was  speaking  of,  if  you  like 
to  look  at  it. 

Mrs.  C.  Thank  you.  [Puts  it  carelessly  on  table.^  I 
will  look  at  it  next  week  if  I  have  time.  {Then  reflecting) 
And  yet,  after  all,  Evelyn  is  the  kind  of  girl  whose  only 
object  it  will  probably  be  to  marry  and  be  established  in 
life  .  .  .  she  might  perhaps  be  more  likely  to  do  so  in  a 
satisfactory  way  under  your  care  than  under  mine,  for  of 
course  none  of  the  people  she  meets  here  are  likely  to  be 
attracted  by  her — she  is  not  intellectual  enough. 

Maj.  *S'.  (aside).  So  much  the  worse  for  them,  then, 
that's  all  I  can  say.  (Aloud)  Ah,  really.  I  thought  Mr. 
Sandford  seemed  to  be  attracted  by  her — but  perhaps  I  was 
mistaken. 

Mrs.  C.  Mr.  Sandford  !  what  an  utterly  absurd  idea  ! 
He  sometimes,  it  is  true,  out  of  regard  for  me,  is  willing  to 
descend  to  her  level,  and  talk  with  her  for  a  time,  while  I 
am  busy — but  it  is  out  of  pure  kindness  of  heart,  nothing 
else. 

Maj.  S.  What  a  very  kind  young  gentleman  he 
must  be  ! 

Mrs.  C.  I  can't  imagine  two  people  more  dissimilar, 
less  suited  to  one  another,  than  Mr.  Sandford  and  Evelyn. 

Moj.  S.     In  what  way  ? 

Mrs.  C.  In  every  way.  He  is  clever  and  ambitious — 
she  is 

Maj.  S.     Simple  and  domestic. 

Mrs.  C.  Well — I  was  going  to  say,  humdrum  and 
ignorant.  He  is  an  ardent  politician,  of  the  advanced  party- 
she  does  not  know  a  Liberal  from  a  Tory. 

Maj.  S.     Well,  a  good  many  peojjle  don't,  nowadays. 


A  Woman  of  Culture  89 

Enter  Evelyn, 

Evel.     What,  Uncle  John,  still  here  ? 

Maj.  S.  Yes,  you  may  well  be  surprised — you  re- 
mind me  that  I  have  been  here  an  unconscionably  long  time. 
My  wife  told  me  to  wait  here  for  her,  but  I  don't  suppose 
she  will  come  now. 

Mrs.  C.  (aside).     Thank  Heaven  ! 

Maj.  S.  Good-bye,  Mrs.  Chester.  (Carelessly)  By  the 
way,  then,  what  about  that  paper  ?  will  you  sign  it  now, 
and  I  will  take  it  away  with  me,  to  save  you  any  further 
trouble  about  it  ? 

Mrs.  C.  What  paper  1  Oh,  yes — I  remember.  No, 
leave  it  there — I  don't  suppose  I  shall  make  any  use  of  it 
after  all. 

Maj.  S.  (disappointed).  Very  well.  Good-bye  again, 
then.     Good-bye,  my  little  girl. 

Evel.  (aside).  Well,  uncle,  well  1  what  about  it  1 — the 
secret  1 

[Maj.  S.  shakes  his  head,  then  points  secretly  to  paper 
on  toriting -table.  Evelyn  looks  about,  bewildered 
— exit  Maj.  S. 

Mrs.  C.  (sitting  at  writing-table).  What  is  it,  Evelyn  ? 
what  are  you  looking  for  ? 

Evel.  (embarrassed).  Nothing,  aunt,  nothing— I  was 
just  looking  for — my  book.     Oh,  there  it  is  ! 

[Darts  to  otlier  table  and  takes  book. 

Mrs.  C.  I  am  glad  to  see  you  sitting  down  to  read, 
Evelyn,  instead  of  hanging  about  in  that  purposeless  way 
of  yours.     What  is  your  book  ? 

Evel.  '  Called  Back.'  Uncle  John  got  it  for  me  just 
now  at  the  Underground  station,  and,  oh  !  it  does  look  so 
interestii)g  ! 

Mrs.  C.  '  Called  Back  ! '  Nonsense  !  How  can  you 
waste  y6ur  time  over  such  things  1    [Takes  book  from  Evelyn, 


90  A   Woman  of  Culture 

and  throtm  it  hack  on  to  table.'\  You  had  far  better  go  and 
get  that  Report  of  the  Chamber  of  Agriculture  I  told  you 
to  read,  which  is  on  the  table  in  my  bedroom. 

Bvel.  Yery  well,  aunt.  (Aside)  Just  when  I  was  so 
comfortable  !  '  [Going. 

Mrs.  C.  (aside).  What  am  I  to  do  with  this  girl  ? 
(Aloud)  Here,  Evelyn,  wait  a  moment — I  have  been  so  busy 
during  the  last  week,  ever  since  you  came,  that  I  really  have 
not  had  time  to  speak  to  you  as  seriously  as  I  should  wish 
to  do  about  the  way  you  spend  your  time.  \_Evelyn  heaves  a 
siyh.'\  If  I  were  you  I  should  map  out  each  day  according 
to  some  settled  plan.  If  you  like,  I  will  help  you  to  draw 
it  up. 

Evel.  Oh,  thank  you,  aunt,  that  is  very  kind  of  you — 
but — but — I  have  an  engagement  book  already,  I  suppose 
that  comes  to  the  same  thing. 

Mrs.  C.     Where  is  it  1 

Evel.  (unwillingly).     Here. 

Mrs.  C.  Let  me  see  it.  (Beads)  '  Tuesday,  1st  July  ' — 
that  is  to-morrow — '  nothing.  Wednesday,  Park  at  twelve 
— Evening,  Yer — Yerbeck.'     What  is  that  1 

Evel.  (confused).  Oh,  that  is  the  conjuror  at  Prince's 
Hall,  Piccadilly — Uncle  John  said  he  would  take  me. 

Mrs.  C.  (grimly).  So  I  should  have  expected.  '  Thurs- 
day, Park  at  twelve — Exhibition  at  four  with  Loly  Smith 
— Friday,  Whiteley's  with  Milly  ' — what  on  earth  does  that 
mean  1 

Evel.  Whiteley's  is  that  big  place  in  Westbourne  Grove, 
the  shop,  you  know. 

Mrs.  C.  And  may  I  ask  what  you  are  going  to  do 
there  ? 

Evel.  I  only  thought  it  would  be  amusing  to  go  with 
Milly  Scott  to  see  what  it  is  like — she  very  often  goes. 

Mrs.  C.  I  don't  think  that  will  be  a  very  edifying 
afternoon,  I  must  say — to  go  across  London  with  another 


A   Woman  of  Culture  9 1 

empty-headed  girl,  in  order  to  gaze  in  at  a  shop  window 
whose  only  merit  is  that  it  is  a  quarter  of  a  mile  long,  to 
buy  a  dozen  things  you  don't  want,  because  they  are  a  penny 
cheaper  than  anywhere  else,  and  then  pay  two  shillings  for 
a  hansom  to  bring  them  home  in  ! 

Evel.  (timidly).  Of  course,  aunt,  if  you  would  rather  I 
didn't  .   .  . 

Mrs.  C.  '  Rather  you  didn't  ! '  I  would  rather  you  did 
not  do  anything  that  you  do  !  The  way  you  fritter  your 
days  away  is  simply  deplorable,  nothing  else  !  Why  don't 
you  have  some  settled  purpose,  some  definite  scheme  of  life  ? 
Everyone  ought  to  have  a  definite  purpose  in  life. 

Evel.  (ingeniously).  Oh,  I  think  I  should  dislike  that 
very  much  indeed  ! 

Mrs.  C.     Is  there  absolutely  nothing  you  care  about  ? 

Evel.     Oh,  yes — heaps  of  things. 

Mrs.  G.  Nothing,  I  mean,  that  has  any  sense  in  it  ? 
Are  you  fond  of  music  1 

Evel.     Yes,  passionately  ! 

Mrs.  C.  Yes,  I  know  that  is  the  consecrated  phrase  : 
everybody  says  they  are  passionately  fond  of  music,  even  if 
they  only  go  to  a  concert  once  a  year,  for  which  they  are 
given  a  ticket  !     Do  you  play  at  all  1 

Evel.     A  little. 

Mrs.  C.     And  sing  ? 

Evel.  (modestly).  A  little — -just  enough  to  sing  at 
parties,  you  know,  while  people  are  talking. 

Mrs.  C.     What  sort  of  music  do  you  prefer  ? 

Evel.  Oh,  sheet  music,  certainly,  that  isn't  bound — I 
hate  having  to  take  out  a  large  fat  book  to  dinner  with 
me,  for  the  sake  of  one  song  I  may  have  to  sing  in  the 
evening. 

Mrs.  C.  No— I  mean  the  music  of  which  particular 
school  do  you  like  best  1 

Evel.     I  liked  the  music  at  Miss  Perkins's  school  best, 


92  A   Woman  of  Culture 

where  they  had  none  of  those  horrid  concerts  the  girls  have 
to  play  at,  whether  they  like  it  or  not,  as  they  did  at  the 
one  where  poor  Loly  Smith  was. 

Mrs.  C.  (aside).  This  is  really  hopeless  !  (Aloud)  You 
misapprehend  my  meaning — what  I  am  trying  to  find  out 
is,  whether  you  prefer  the  music  of  one  composer,  or  period, 
to  another  1 

Evel.  Oh,  no,  certainly  not  !  I  don't  care  what  it  is. 
I  like  whatever  takes  my  fancy,  no  matter  where  I  find  it, 
provided  it  is  pretty. 

Mrs.  C.  '  Pretty  ! '  what  an  epithet  to  apply  to  music 
nowadays!  You  are  quite  mistaken — you  should  find  out 
what  you  ought  to  admire,  and  like  nothing  else. 

Evel.  (impressed).  Really  ?  but  wouldn't  that  be  very 
difficult  ?  is  that  what  you  do  1 

Mrs.  C.  I  am  somewhat  different — I,  unfortunately 
perhaps  for  myself,  have  such  keen,  critical  perceptions,  such 
a  sensitive  impressionable  nature,  so  fastidious  a  taste,  that 
it  is  only  what  I  know  beforehand  to  be  the  very  best  of 
everything  that  in  the  least  satisfies  me. 

Evel.  (innocently).  Dear  me  !  how  uncomfortable  that 
must  be  !     Doesn't  it  make  you  feel  very  discontented  ? 

Mrs.  C.  (sententiously).  Discontent  is  the  first  step 
towards  improvement. 

Evel.    But  one  can't  always  be  thinking  of  improvement. 

Mrs.  C.  I  always  am — if  not  of  my  own,  of  other 
people's. 

Evel.     But  do  other  people  like  being  improved  1 

Mrs.  C.  They  ought  to,  if  they  don't.  And  when  I  see 
they  are  going  the  wrong  way  about  a  thing,  I  tell  them 
which  is  the  right  one. 

Evel.  But  suppose  they  do  not  consider  it  the  right 
one  1 

Mrs.  C.  Then,  they  are  mistaken.  (Aside)  Tiresome 
girl  !  there  is  no  making  her  understand  anything  ! 


A  Woman  of  Culture  93 

Evd.     I  see  ! 

Mrs.  C.  You  have  many  opportunities  of  improving 
yourself  here,  where  you  associate  with  me  and  my  friends. 
You  should  make  the  most  of  it,  and  endeavour,  by  inter- 
course with  people  of  superior  intellectual  power,  to  get 
some  ideas  and  information  into  your  head. 

Evel.  Oh,  aunt — it  really  is  not  my  fault — but  I  never 
can  find  anything  to  say  to  your  friends  ! 

Mrs.  C.  And  yet  I  saw  you  yesterday  in  conversation 
with  Mr.  Sandford.     What  were  you  talking  about  then  1 

Evel.  (smiling).  Oh,  Mr.  Sandford,  yes — he  is  very 
easy  to  talk  to.  Let  me  see — we  were  wondering  how 
many  lanterns  are  lighted  every  evening  at  the  Inventions 
Exhibition — and  then  I  asked  him  if  we  ought  to  say  Inven- 
tories  or  /«ventories. 

Mrs.  C.  I  really  believe  you've  got  that  Exhibition  on 
your  brain  !  No  wonder  there  is  no  room  for  anything  else 
there.  Could  you  have  found  no  topic  more  likely  to 
interest  Mr.  Sandford  than  such  a  very  commonplace  one  ? 

Evel.     What,  for  instance  1 

Mrs.  C.  Let  me  see— the  Cliannel  Tunnel — I  know  he 
is  interested  in  boring  by  compressed  air — or  the  reorganis- 
ing of  the  Household  Suttrage.  I  think  if  you  spoke  to  him 
on  such  subjects  as  these  you  would  soon  see  a  very  marked 
alteration  in  his  manner. 

Evel.  (aside).     Yes,  I  think  I  probably  should. 

Mrs.  C.  Now  do  try  to  remember  all  I  have  been  say- 
ing to  you,  like  a  good  girl 

Evel.  Yes,  aunt,  I  will — and  I  will  go  now  and  get  the 
Report  on  Agriculture  to  read. 

Mr.f.  C.  That's  right.  In  the  meantime  just  give  me 
the  '  Times  '  as  you  pass,  off  that  table. 

Evel.  (looking  at  paper  as  she  brings  it).  Why,  here  is 
Mr.  Sandford's  name  !     Look  ! 

Mrs.  C.  (eagerly).     What  about  him  1     [Takes  pa2}er.] 


94  'A   Woman  of  Culture 

Good  heavens  !  the  Member  for  Blackney  is  dead  !  Mr. 
Sandford  has  been  asked  to  stand  !  Dear  me,  how  very 
important  !  we  must  take  steps  at  once — not  a  moment 
must  be  lost  about  tlie  canvassing.  I  will  write  directly  to 
Mr.  Birmingham  and  Sir  Charles  Drake  to  ask  them  to 
dinner  to  meet  him. 

Enter  Maid. 
Maid  (announces).       Mr.  Sandford. 

Enter  Sandjord.     Exit  Maid. 

Mrs.  C.  Mr.  Sandford  !  I  am  very  glad  to  see  you,  as 
indeed  I  always  am,  but  more  especially  to-day,  as  we  have 
just  seen  the  exciting  news  about  Blackney  in  the  paper. 

Sand/.  Yes,  it  is  exciting,  isn't  it  ?  Were  you  excited 
too,  Miss  Barrington  1 

Evel.  (shyly).     Yes,  I  was. 

Mrs.  C.  I  am  afraid  Evelyn  hardly  cares  enough  about 
politics  yet  to  have  been  much  interested. 

Evel.  (to  Sandf.)  I  was,  though,  all  the  same  !  (Aside) 
What  a  shame,  when  it  was  I  saw  it  in  the  paper  first  ! 

Mrs.  C.  (to  Sandf.)  And  now,  what  are  you  going  to  do  1 
I  am  frightfully  and  overwhelmingly  busy  to-day,  but  still  I 
must  really  hear  all  about  your  plans.  Evelyn,  you  will 
hardly  be  interested  in  a  dry  political  discussion,  I  imagine 
— you  need  not  stay  if  you  do  not  feel  inclined.  You  will 
find  the  pamphlet  I  told  you  of,  in  my  room. 

Evel.     Very  well,  I  will  get  it.  [Goes,  sloioly. 

Sandf.  (opening  door  for  her).  But  why  should  you  go 
away.  Miss  Barrington  ? 

Mrs.  C.     She  will  be  much  happier  away  ! 

Evel.  (aside  to  Sandf.)     I  shall  come  back  again. 

[Exit  Evelyn. 

Mrs.  C.  It  is  much  better  that  she  should  go — for  it 
would  be  very  hard  on  you,  when  you  have  come  intending, 


A  Woman  of  Culture  95 

I  suppose,  to  have  some  sensible  talk,  that  you  should  be 
put  oiF  with  the  meaningless  chatter  which  girls  of  Evelyn's 
age  consider  conversation. 

Sandf.  Oh,  not  at  all,  I  assure  you — it  is  quite  amus- 
ing hearing  what  they  think  ! 

Mrs.  C.  Yes,  I  know  how  good-natured  you  always 
are  in  that  way.  But  now  let  us  talk  of  something  more 
interesting — about  yourself,  your  viesvs,  and  what  you  pro- 
pose to  do.  Remember  that  you  once  promised  not  to  take 
any  important  step  without  consulting  me.     {Smiling.) 

Sandf.  Indeed,  I  do  remember — and  it  is  for  that  I 
have  come  here  to-day.     I  want  to  ask  your  advice. 

Mrs.  C.  You  know  how  delighted  I  always  am  to  help 
you. 

Sandf.     You  are  the  kindest  and  best  of  friends  ! 

3frs.  C.  Besides,  I  feel  it  is  almost  a  duty  with  me  not 
to  keep  my  opinions  to  myself — I  can't  help  realising  that 
they  are  worth  having,  on  most  subjects,  and  that  I  do 
generally  know  better  than  other  people. 

Sandf.  You  do,  certainly — and  that  is  why  I  have  come 
to  appeal  to  your  friendship,  at  a  momentous  crisis  of  my  life. 

3frs.  C.  I  have  not  the  slightest  hesitation  about  it — 
there  is  not  a  doubt  in  my  mind  as  to  what  you  should  do. 

Sandf.  (surprised).     Not  a  doubt  ?  .  .  . 

3frs.  C.  None  whatever.  You  must  organise  your 
committee,  make  friends  with  the  leading  men  on  both 
sides,  and  begin  canvassing  at  once,  as  energetically  as 
possible.  In  the  meantime  I  will  ask  Mr.  Birmingham 
and  Sir  Charles  Drake,  and  one  or  two  other  influential 
men,  to  meet  you  here  at  dinner,  and  then  we  can  arrange 
the  campaign. 

Sandf.     Oh  !  .  .  .  You  were  thinking  of  Blackney  ? 

Mrs.  C.  Of  course  !  Is  it  possible  to  think  of  any- 
thing else,  while  this  immeasurably  important  question  still 
remains  unsettled  ? 


95  A   Woman  of  Culture 

Sandf.  Of  course— what  am  I  thinking  of  1 — certainly, 
some  steps  ought  to  be  taken  at  once.  [Preoccupied. 

Mrs.  C.  Who  is  your  right-hand  man — your  chief 
supporter  1  who  is  the  Liberal  agent  for  Blackney  1  you 
were  telling  me  his  name  the  other  day. 

Sandf.  Was  I  ?  I  don't  remember.  Oh,  yes,  to  be 
sure  I  was.  It  is  Smith,  I  think — if  it  is  not  Smith  it  is 
Jenkins.  .  .  . 

Mrs.  C.  You  are  strangely  absent  to-day,  and  unlike 
yourself.  Is  there  anything  on  your  mind  1  or  is  it  the 
suddenness  and  agitation  of  all  this  that  has  upset  you  1 

Sandf.  (hesitating).  No,  it  is  not  that.  .  .  (Resolutely) 
The  fact  is  that  it  was  not  about  Blackney  at  all  that  I 
came  to  ask  your  advice  to-day. 

Mrs.  C.  (eagerly  and  rapidly).  Not  about  Blackney  ? 
then  what  other  place  have  you  been  asked  to  stand  for  ? 
you  don't  mean  to  say  they've  offered  you  Sleaford  ?  What 
a  triumph  it  would  be  if  you  were  returned  there,  in  that 
nest  of  red-hot  Tories.     Is  it  Sleaford  ? 

Sandf.     No,  it  isn't. 

Mrs.  C.     Then  is  it 

Sandf     It  isn't  any  place  at  all. 

Mrs.  C.  What,  you  don't  mean  to  say  it  is  a  county  'i 
Oh,  how  glorious  !  only  you  must  remember  that  a  county 
is  always  much  more  expensive,  as  the  voters  who  live  in 
remote  parts  won't  come  to  the  poll  unless  you  send  cabs 
for  them. 

Sandf.  (desperately).  No,  no,  no  !  Mrs.  Chester,  you 
have  misunderstood  me — it  was  not  about  Parliament  at  all 
that  I  came  to  speak  to  you. 

Mrs.  C.  (disappointed).  Not  about  Parliament  1  then 
it  can't  be  anything  that  matters  much.  I  shall  be 
delighted  to  help  and  advise  you  all  the  same,  of  course,  in 
any  way  I  can — but  still  I  feel  that  nothing  else  is  of  much 
importance  just  now. 


A  Woman  of  Culture  97 

Snndf.     I  wish  I  thought  so  too  ! 

Mrs.  C  (amazed).  Why,  what  extraordinary  change  has 
come  over  you  1 

Sandf.     The  fact  is,  that  I  am— I  am — in  love  ! 

Mrs.  C.     In  love  ! ! 

Sand/.     In  love.     I  must  admit  it  ! 

Mrs.  C.  Oh,  what  a  very  unfortunate  moment  to  have 
chosen ! 

Sandf.  Yes,  after  all  the  discussions  we  have  had  on 
the  subject,  all  the  derision  we  have  heaped  upon  it,  all 
my  firm  resolutions  not  to  succumb  for  at  least  ten  years 
longer,  I  am  as  utterly,  as  ridiculously  in  love  as  it  is 
possible  for  a  man  to  be  !     Now,  do  you  despise  me  ? 

Mrs.  G.  N — no — I  don't  despise'  you  exactly — but  I  am 
a  little  surprised,  I  must  confess. 

Sandf.  Yes,  that  comes  to  much  the  same  thing — I 
know  what  people  mean  when  they  say  they  are  surprised 
at  you  ! 

Mrs.  C.  I  can't  help  regretting  it  should  have  happened 
just  at  this  juncture,  as  I  am  terribly  afraid  it  will  stand 
in  the  way  of  your  election. 

Sandf  Don't  say  that  you  disapprove  of  me,  just  when 
I  have  come  to  ask  your  advice 

Mrs.  C.  And  to  disregard  it,  I  suppose,  as  people 
always  do  on  these  occasions  ! 

Sandf.     I  hope  not. 

Afrs.  C.  You  must  remember  that  I  am  still  quite  in 
the  dark  as  to  whether  the  object  of  your  love  is  worthy  or 
not. 

Sandf.  You  ought  to  know  that,  of  all  people  in  the 
world — you  who  must  best  know  her  real  character 

Mrs.  G.     I  ?  .  .  . 

Sandf  Yes,  you  —you  who  have  helped  me  for  the  last 
two  years  by  your  untiring  sympathy  and  friendship — who 


93  A   Woman  of  Culture 

have  been  iny  guide  and  counsellor — the  confidpnte  of  every 
hope,  eveiy  ambition  of  mine  as  it  ai'ose 

Mrs.  C.     Mr.  iSandford^you  bewilder  me 

Sandf.  Listen  to  me  again  now  !  ...  in  your  hands  the 
decision  principally  rests — the  decision  I  await  in  trembling 
suspense,  yet  hardly  dare  to  ask  for. 

Mrs.  C.  I  am  so  taken  by  surprise  that  I  hardly  know 
what  to  say 

Sand/.  Taken  by  surprise  1  Do  you  mean  to  say  you 
had  no  suspicion  of  my  attachment  ? 

Mrs.    C.      Well,   I    have    sometimes    thought But 

then,  you  know,  people  are  so  liable  to  be  mistaken  in  these 
matters — one  is  so  apt  to  believe  the  thing  one  wishes  to 
believe  ! 

Sandf.  One  wishes  to  believe !  How  good  of  you  to  say 
so  !  You  will  be  on  my  side,  then  ?  your  own  kind  heart 
will  plead  my  cause  with  her  whom  I  love. 

Enter  Major  and  Mrs.  Symonds. 

Mrs.  C.  (bored,  aside).     What,  again  ? 

Mrs.  S.  (eflfusively).  Well,  dear  Diana,  and  how  are 
you  '(     It  seems  to  me  positively  an  age  since  we  met  ! 

[Kisses  her.     Mis.  C.  cold. 

Mrs.  C.  Does  it  1  It  has  not  seemed  to  me  so  very 
long. 

Mrs.  S.  I  said  to  John  this  morning,  '  Now  mind, 
whatever  happens,  I  must  go  and  see  Diana  this  after- 
noon.' 

Mrs.  C.     Too  kind  of  you. 

Mrs.  S.  Not  at  all,  my  dear — besides  I  knew  you 
would  never  forgive  me  if  I  didn't  come  near  you  for  so 
long.  But  John,  great  stupid  creature  that  he  is,  instead 
of  waiting  for  me  here  as  I  asked  him,  must  needs  leave 
before  I  got   here    [smiling  at   her  hushand\      However, 


A   Woman  of  Culture  C9 

foi'tunately  I  met   him   in    Piccadilly  on    the   way,    so    I 
brought  him  back  again. 

yfrs.  C     I  see.     (Aside). 

Maj.  S.     Behold  the  melancholy  result  of  having  a  wife 
Mr.  Sandford !     Take  a  warning  by  me— I  am  not  even 
allowed  to  walk  down  Piccadilly  in  which  direction  I  like 

3frs.  S.  Now,  John,  you  are  really  too  bad  1  \  Afrt.  C 
bored.^     Very  hot  to-day,  isn't  it  ? 

Sandf.     Very — one  of  the  hottest  days  we  have  had. 

Afaj.  S.  But  not  quite  so  oppressive  as  last  night — do 
you  think  so,  Mrs.  Chester  ? 

Mrs.  C.     I  never  discuss  the  weather. 

Maj.  S.     Oh  !  .  .  .   I  really  Vjeg  your  pardon. 

Mrs.  S.  And  what  were  you  talking  about,  then,  when 
we  came  in  ?     Something  very  clever,  I  am  sure  ! 

3Irs.  C.  (embarrassed).  We  were  having  a  discussion 
on — on — politics. 

Maj.  iS.  On  politics — indeed.  Politics  is  a  most  absorb- 
ing subject,  don't  you  find  it  so  ? 

Mrs.  C.     It  is,  indeed — the  most  absorbing  of  all. 

Maj.  iS,  Well,  I  don't  know  that  I  would  go  quite  so 
far  as  that.  And  where  is  Evelyn  ?  she  was  not  included 
in  the  political  discussion,  I  presume  ? 

Mrs.  C.  No,  she  does  not  care  about  these  things,  I 
am  sorry  to  say — she  preferred  to  go  to  her  room. 

Maj.  S.  (aside).     I  dare  say — yes  ! 

Mt-s.  S.  And  so,  Mr.  Sandford,  I  hear  you  have  decided 
to  make  the  fatal  plunge — that  you  are,  in  fact,  in  the 
position  of  a  man  who  is  going  to  propose,  and  does  not 
know  whether  he  will  be  accepted. 

[Mrs.  C.  and  Sandf.  sta/rthd. 

Sandf.     Why,  who  told  you  .  .  .  .   ? 

Mrs.  S.  (surprised).  W^ho  told  me  ?  It  was  in  the 
paper  this  morning — about  your  standing  for  Blackney 
John  read  it  out  to  me  at  breakfast,  didn't  you,  J  ohn  1 

h2 


lOO  A   Woman  of  Culture 

Sanif.  (relieved).  Oh,  yes — yes  !  it  is  quite  true,  I 
am  going  to  try  my  chance  at  Blackney. 

Maj.  S.  Well,  I  wish  you  luck — though  you  are  on  the 
wrong  side,  mind  ! 

Sand/.     Thank  you. 

Mrs.  S.  I  was  so  interested  when  I  heard  of  it  !  I 
didn't  read  it  myself  till  this  afternoon,  as  John  of  course 
takes  possession  of  the  paper  at  breakfast,  as  every  husband 
does,  and  I  don't  get  it  for  ever  so  long  afterwards. 

Maj.  >S.  (laughing).  Of  course.  It  is  an  Englishman's 
prerogative.  What  do  women  want  with  a  newspaper  at 
breakfast  ?  they  read  nothing  but  the  advertisement  sheet, 
and  the  letters  from  British  Matrons  about  the  Royal 
Academy,  and  that  sort  of  thing. 

Mrs.  S.  (laughing).  What  a  shame,  John  !  That's  the 
way  he  always  goes  on,  Mr.  Sandford — you  wouldn't  be- 
lieve the  things  he  says  sometimes — it  is  too  bad  of  him,  it 
is  really  !  Never  mind,  Diana,  we  know  that  we  women 
are  not  quite  so  frivolous  as  he  tries  to  make  out,  are  we  ? 

Mrs.  C.  (stiffly).  Thank  you,  I  am  quite  aware  that  /, 
at  any  rate,  am  not  in  the  least  frivolous — I  do  not  feel 
the  slightest  anxiety  on  that  score. 

Afaj.  S.  No,  T  must  say  I  think  you  may  feel  quite 
comfortable  about  it,  ha,  ha  ! 

Mrs.  C.  (coldly,  looking  among  papers  on  writing-table). 
I  am  afraid  that  jokes  are  lost  upon  me — as  I  have  often 
told  you,  I  have  no  sense  of  humour. 

Mnj.  S.  (laughs  aside).  Why,  what  a  formidable  array 
of  papers,  Mrs.  Chester  !  I  don't  wonder  you  can't  lay 
your  hand  on  the  one  you  want.  Is  it  the  one  I  left  with 
you  this  morning  that  you  are  looking  for  ?  that  is  it,  I 
believe. 

[Taking  up.^eed.  During  the  following,  Mrs.  C. 
and  Maj.  S.  at  back,  R.  and  L.  of  ivriting-table 
Mrs.  S.  and  Sandf.  talking,  R.  at  sofa. 


A   Woman  of  Culture  loi 

Mrs.  C.  No,  that  is  not  the  one  I  was  looking  for.  It 
was  the  draft  of  a  scheme  for  a  Mutual  Improvement 
Society. 

Maj.  S.  I  see  you  have  not  signed  this  one  yet — after 
all,  as  you  s-ij  perhaps  it  is  better  left  alone.  I  think  I 
would  rather  you  continued  to  share  my  responsibility — 
\^n-ith  intention] — being  a  guardian  takes  up  a  great  deal  of 
time,  and  means  a  lot  of  worry  and  trouble  to  fulfil  tlie 
tluties  properly. 

Mrs.  C.  (with  a  sigh).  It  does,  indeed  !  (Aside)  Be- 
sides, how  can  I  fulfil  them  now,  after  what  has  passed, 
and  the  new  obligations  I  have  undertaken  ?  how  can  I 

now  give  up  my  time,  to  Evelyn  or  anyone  else  but 

[Looks  fondly  at  Sandf.  Maj.  S.  putting  deed  ostentatious! if 
into  his  pocket — Mrs.  G.  Iwlds  out  her  hand  for  it.]  Stay, 
give  it  to  me — I  have  changed  my  mind — I  will  sign  it. 
[Maj.  S.  affects  indifference  to  conceal  his  delight — Mrs.  C. 
tiits  doicn  to  tvriting -table,  holding  her  pen  ready  as  she 
s])eaks—Mnj.  S.  watches  her.]  I  feel  I  should  never  be 
able  to  fulfil  the  duties  properly — I  should  have  liked  to 
have  raised  Evelyn  nearer  to  my  own  level,  but  I  am 
really  too  busy  to  attempt  it — and  now  this  election  puts 
the  finishing  stroke,  by  overwhelming  me  with  work  for 
the  next  fortnight. 

[Dips  j)en  into  ink.     Just  as  she  is  going  to  sign, 
enter  Maid. 

Maid.     Please,  ma'am  [Mrs.  C.  turns  round  and  puts 
down  her  pen — Afaj.  S.  makes  a  gesture  of  disappointment] 
-the   Committee  of   the  Improvement   Society  is  down- 
stairs. 

3frs.  C.  Dear  me,  yes — I  forgot  they  were  coming  so 
early,  and  I  have  not  yet  found  that  pajDer— how  unfor- 
tunate !     How  many  are  there  ? 

Maid.     Seven  ladies,  ma'am,  and  one  gentleman. 

Mrs.  C.     I  will  go  and  speak  to  them,     [Goes  to  duor — 


I02  A   Wom.i7t  of  Culture 

turns  &ac''.l     No — ask  if  they  will  have  the  goodness  to 
Avait  a  few  minutes,  while  I  get  their  papers  ready. 

Maid.     Yes,  ma'am.  \^Exit  Maid. 

Mrs.  C.  I  do  wonder  what  I  have  done  with  that 
prospectus  !  [Turns  over  papers. 

Maj.  S.  (indiflerently).  What  about  this,  then  ?  will 
you  sign  it  now  ? 

Mrs.  G.     I  really  don't  think  I  have  time  to-day. 

Maj.  S.  (carelessly).  Just  as  you  like,  of  course — but 
it  would  not  take  you  long  just  to  write  your  name,  and  I 
really  don't  see  how  you  can  possibly  have  time  to  look 
after  Evelyn,  with  committees,  and  elections,  and  all  that 
you  have  to  do. 

Mrs.  G.     No— that  is  true — I  suppose  I  must  give  it  up, 
[Hesitates  a  moment,  then  signs  jjajjer  and  gives  it  to 
Maj.  >S. 

Maj.  S.  Thank  you.  (Aside)  Victory  !  my  little 
Evelyn  will  thank  me  for  this  morning's  work  !  now  we 
shall  see  !  [Ptt,ts  paper  in  his  pocket — comes  forward,  L. 

Mr.  G.     Ah,  here  is  the  prospectus,  at  last. 

\Comes  forwa7'd  with  jmper. 

Mrs.  S.     What  is  it  about  ? 

Mrs.  G.  It  is  the  draft  scheme  of  the  society  (To 
Sandford)  we  were  speaking  of  the  other  day. 

Mrs.  *S'.  But  may  ^ve  not  hear  about  it  too  ?  I  am  very 
much  interested  in  schemes,  I  assure  you,  though  I  don't 
understand  anything  about  inventing  them,  ha,  ha  ! 

Mrs.  G.  I  don't  suppose  that  this  will  interest  you  in 
the  very  least.  It  occurred  to  me  as  desirable  that  a 
small  number  of  suitable  people  should  form  themselves 
into  a  Society,  to  be  called  the  Society  of  Mutual  Improve- 
ment, each  member  of  which  should  make  it  his  or  her 
duty  to  improve  all  the  other  members. 

Maj.  A'.  It  will  be  rather  a  dangerous  experiment,  I 
should  ima'^iiie. 


A  Woman  of  Culture  103 

Mrs.  C.     I  don't  see  why. 

Mrs.  S.  If  I  were  to  try  to  improve  other  people,  T 
should  be  so  afraid  that  they  might  know  better  than 
myself  after  all ! 

Mrs.  C.  (pointedly).  Of  course,  that  is  more  likely  to 
happen  in  some  cases  than  in  others — besides,  people  with 
any  mii«givings  of  that  kind  are  not  fit  and  proper  persons 
tc»  join  the  Society. 

Sand/.    Have  you  drawn  up  the  rules  of  the  Society  yet  ? 

Mrs.  S.  Yes,  pray  do  let  us  hear  how  they  are  to  set 
about  improving  each  other. 

Maj.  S.  First  rule — 'No  member  to  improve  more  than 
two  other  members  at  the  same  time  ! ' 

[Mrs.  S.  and  Sand/,  laugh — Mrs.  C.  looks  severe. 

Mrs.  C.  (reads  from  prospectus).  '  By  pointing  out  the 
weak  places  in  each  person's  pet  theory — by  contradicting 
and  correcting  them  whenever  they  make  a  statement  of 
fact — by  questioning  any  authority  they  may  bring  to  bear 
on  the  subject,  and  by  generally  setting  them  right  on  any 
political,  social,  or  general  topic  they  may  happen  to 
discuss.' 

Mrs.  S.  Dear  me,  I  am  afraid  it  won't  be  a  society 
for  improving  people's  tempers,  then  !  [ASa7id/.  laughs. 

Mrs.  C.  (vexed).  This  is  not  the  proper  spirit  in  which 
to  discuss  so  serious  a  scheme.  (To  Sandf.)  I  should 
hardly  have  thought  that  you  would  have  joined  in  throw- 
ing ridicule  on  it,  especially  as  I  have  drawn  it  up. 

Sand/  (becoming  serious).  You  know  how  deeply  in 
terested  I  always  am  in  everything  you  do. 

Maj.  S.  (looking  at  them,  aside).  I  wonder  where 
Evelyn  is  all  this  time  ? 

Sand/.  I  am  more  than  ready  to  help  you  to  set  it 
afloat. 

Mrs.  C.  (tenderly).  Thank  you,  dear  friend — I  know 
I  can  always  rely  on  your  support. 


1 04  A   Woman  of  Culture 

Sandf.  In  the  meantime,  can't  I  interview  this  com- 
mittee downstairs  for  you,  and  get  rid  of  them  for  the 
moment  1 

Mrs.  C.  Thank  you  so  much — if  you  will  really  be  so 
good,  (aside)  as  these  two  tiresome  people  show  no  signs 
of  going  away  !  (Aloud)  Here  is  the  prospectus — will  you 
give  it  to  them,  and  tell  them  they  shall  hear  from  me 
within  the  next  fortnight  ?  \_£xit  Sandf. 

Mrs.  C.  It  is  absurd  to  think  of  attempting  to  organise 
the  society,  or  to  attend  to  anything  else,  in  fact,  till  the 
election  is  over. 

Mrs.  S.  But  why  should  the  election  prevent  you  from 
doing  anything  else,  Diana  ?  you  are  not  going  to  stand, 
are  you  ? 

Mrs.  C.  Not  on  this  occasion,  though  I  claim  an  entire 
right  to  do  so  whenever  I  please — I  was  thinking  only  of 
Mr.  Sandford's  election.  There  will  be  a  great  deal  of 
canvassing  to  be  done,  which  ought  to  be  begun  as  soon  as 
possible.  Not  a  stone  must  be  left  unturned  to  secure  his 
return — we  can't  afford  in  these  times  to  lose  a  good 
Liberal  in  the  House. 

Mrs.  S.  Well,  I'm  glad  I  am  not  so  fond  of  politics — 
it  must  be  very  trying  work,  getting  people  elected  in  this 
hot  weather  ! 

Maj.  S.  What  will  become  of  Evelyn,  then,  while  you 
are  canvassing  1  she  will  not  be  canvassing  too,  I  imagine  ? 

Mrs.  C.     I  imagine  not. 

Mrs.  S.  Then  I  hope  we  shall  see  a  little  more  of  her, 
as  you  will  be  busy.  She  is  the  very  dearest  girl,  to  be 
sure  !  I  quite  envy  you,  having  had  her  to  stay  with  you 
for  a  fortnight. 

Mrs.  G.  (coldly).  She  is  quiet  and  unobtrusive,  cer- 
tainly— and  not  more  disturbing  to  have  in  the  house  than 
an  idle  visitor  must  necessarily  be. 

3Iaj.  S.     She  is  so  full  of  fun  and  animation — so  much 


A   Woman  of  Ctdture  105 

to  say  for  herself  !  she  quite  kept  the  place  alive  when  she 
was  with  us. 

Mrs.  G.  She  has  plenty  to  say  about  the  Inventions 
Exhibition,  I  dare  say. 

Maj.  S.  Well,  it  certainly  offers  a  large  field  for 
con^•ersation. 

Enter  Evelyn,  icith  a  large  blue  paper  hook  open  in 
her  liand. 

Evel.  Aunt  Diana,  I  just  wanted  to  know — yLooks 
round  for  Sandf^  Oh,  dear  Aunt  Lucy  !  I  didn't  know  you 
were  here — w-hy.  Uncle  John,  you  don't  mean  to  say  you 
have  come  back  again  1 

Maj.  S.  (laughing).  Yes,  I've  come  back  to  look  after 
you,  because  I  can't  trust  you  out  of  my  sight ! 

Mrs.  S.     There  he  is,  at  his  jokes  again  as  usual  ! 

Evel.  (aside  to  Maj.  S.)  Where  is  Mr.  Sandfoid?  Is 
he  gone  ? 

Maj.  S.  (points  downwards  mysteriously).  Down  there — 
that's  where  he  is.  \^Evel.  looks  betvildered.^  He  is  down- 
stairs— to  interview  a  committee — an  improving  committee  ! 

Evel.  (aside).  Oh  ....  I  see.  (Aloud)  Bother  all 
these  committees  ! 

Maj.  S.  (aside).  That's  just  my  view.  (Aloud)  And 
what  are  you  reading,  Evelyn  ?  You  see  I  was  right  to 
come  and  look  after  you,  for  the  moment  my  back  is  turned 
you  go  and  read  a  great  fat  blue  book  that  I  am  sure  you 
don't  understand  a  word  of  ! 

Evel.     First  of  all,  it  isn't  a  Bluebook. 

Maj.  S.     Not  a  blue  book  1    What  is  it,  then,  pray  ? 

Eoel.     I  mean  it  isn't  what  is  called  a  Bluebook. 

Maj.  S.  Oh,  indeed  !  then  I  must  be  getting  blind,  I 
suppose — I  shall  have  to  take  to  brush -making,  or  to 
domestic  service,  like  Mrs.  Chester's  friend  ! 

Evel.     For  shame,  Uncle  John  !     \^Lau(/hing.^     I  know 


I  c6  A   lVo7Jia7i  of  Culture 

what  a  Bluebook  is,  for  Aunt  Diana  told  me,  and  she  is 
always  right. 

Maj.  S.  (aside).     Except  when  she's  wrong  ! 

Evel.  It  is  a  kind  of  book  they  have  in  Parliament, 
with  all  the  despatches  from  everywhere  about  everything 
printed  in  it,  and  it  is  always  brought  and  read  whenever 
there  is  a  fuss. 

Mnj.  S.  I  see  !  you  will  become  a  very  learned  young 
woman  in  time,  if  you  stay  here  k)ng  enough  !  And  what 
is  this,  then,  may  I  ask  ?  '  Report  of  the  5th  Session  of 
Agriculture.'     Good  Lord  !   do  you  understand  any  of  it  ? 

Eoel.  Not  much — in  fact,  I  brought  it  down  to  ask 
Aunt  Diana  something.  I  want  to  know  what  '  unearned 
increment '  means  ?     Do  you  know.  Aunt  Lucy  ? 

Mrs.  S.     My  dear  !  of  course  I  don't  !     Diana  ! 

Mrs.  G.     Yes  —what  is  it  ? 

Evel.  I  only  wanted  to  know,  aunt,  what  '  unearned 
increment '  means  1 

Mrs.  C.  Dear  me,  child,  do  you  mean  to  say  you  don't 
know  that  ?  Why,  it  is  elementary  !  '  unearned  increment ' 
means — but  I  really  have  not  time  to  explain  it  to  you  now. 

Enter  Sandford. 

Maj.  S.  Ah,  there  is  Mr.  Sandford  !  he  can  tell  us,  I 
dare  say,  what  it  is  all  about. 

Sandf.     What  is  it  1    Can  I  help  you.  Miss  Barrington  ? 

[7'a/i¥s  book. 

Evel.     I  thought  you  were  gone  ! 

Hand/.  As  if  I  should  have  gone  without  seeing  you 
again  !  [J/rs.  G.  comes  forward  between  theiit, 

Evel.  (aloud).  Here  it  is,  you  see — the  '  unearned  incre- 
ment.' 

Mrs.  G.  No,  no — don't  explain  it  to  her,  Mr.  Sand- 
ford— one  learns  so  much  better  by  investigating  things 
for  oneself.     Evelyn,  if  you  will  go  into  my  room,  and  look 


A   Woman  of  Culture  107 

on  the  bookcase  to  the  right  of  my  fireplace,  you  will  see  a 
thick  brown  book  in  four  volumes,  called  *  Boodles  on  the 
Land  Laws,'  which  will  tell  you  everything  you  want  to 
know. 

Evel.     Thank  you  very  much,  aunt — I  will  go  preseiitly. 

Mrs.  C.  You  had  far  better  go  now,  while  the  passage 
is  fresh  in  your  mind. 

Mrs.  S.  (to  Evel.)  Wait  one  moment,  dear — don't  go 
and  study  Mr.  Boodles  till  we  have  left — we  shall  be  going 
directly. 

Evel.     Where  to  ? 

Maj.  S.  (to  Evel.)  It  is  a  great  secret — to  the  Inven- 
tions Exhibition  ! 

Mrs.  S.     Won't  you  come  too,  Evelyn  1 

Evel.  I  think  not  this  afternoon,  thank  you,  dear  Aunt 
Lucy. 

Mrs.  C.     What  is  that  1    Where  are  you  going,  Lucy  ? 

Mrs.  S.  (apologetically).  Why,  my  dear,  we  thought 
we  would  just  go  round  by  the  Exhibition  and  hear  Strauss's 
band  they  all  make  such  a  fuss  about — I  was  asking 
Evelyn  if  she  would  not  come  too. 

Mrs.  C.  (cordially).  Oh,  yes,  do,  Evelyn — go  by  all 
means  ! 

Evel.  I  was  just  saying  I  would  not  go  to-day,  Aunt 
Diana — I  have  been  thinking  of  what  you  said  to  me, 
about  the  Exhibition  taking  up  too  much  of  my  time  and 
thoughts,  and  I  have  decided  to  remain  at  home  this  after- 
noon. 

Mrs.  C.  (vexed).  Just  as  you  like,  of  course.  (To  Sandf.) 
Did  you  hear  that  1  What  do  you  say  to  it  1  what  shall 
we  do  ? 

Sandf.  I  say  it  is  delightful.  Nothing  could  suit  me 
better— we  will  have  a  most  blissful  afternoon. 

Mrs.  C.  But  do  you  realise  that  we  shall  be  thre^ 
instead  of  two  ? 


Io8  A  4Voman  of  Culture 

Sandf.  Since  the  three  are  you,  Miss  Barrington  and 
myself,  nothing  could  be  better. 

Mrs.  C.     Then  what  about  the  election,  and  the  letters 
was  to  write  1 

Sandf.  If  you  will  be  so  good  as  to  write  them,  Miss 
Barrington  and  I  will  entertain  each  other. 

Mrs.  C.  You  good,  kind  creature  !  if  you  are  really  sure 
you  don't  mind  tiiat  arrangement  1 

[Durut(/  the  above  Evel.,  Maj.  S.  and  Mrs.  S.  talking, 

Sandf.     Mind  it  !  .  .   .  [-^^«/-  «^<5^  Mrs.  S.  going. 

Mrs.  S.  Good-bye,  then,  dear  Diana — so  glad  to  have 
had  this  peep  of  you.     When  shall  we  meet  again  ? 

Mrs.  C.     I  really  cannot  tell. 

Mrs.  S.  Won't  you  come  to  luncheon  with  me  some 
day  ?  Do — and  then  we  can  have  a  drive  afterwards,  and  do 
our  shopping. 

Mrs.  C.  (stiffly).  Thank  you,  I  am  afraid  that  would 
hardly  suit  me — I  make  a  rule  of  never  going  out  to 
luncheon,  as  it  breaks  into  my  morning — I  have  no  time  to 
drive — and  I  never  shop. 

Mrs.  S.     Then  when  do  you  buy  the  things  you  want  1 

Mrs.  C.     I  don't. 

Maj.  S.  Now,  Lucy,  are  you  coming  away,  or  are  you 
not  1  It  is  no  good,  my  dear,  your  trying  to  understand 
Mrs.  Chester's  scheme  of  life — it  is  quite  beyond  both  of  us, 
1  assure  you,  ha  !  ha  !  come  along. 

Mrs.  S.  (laughing).  Now  just  listen  to  the  way  he  goes 
on  !  Did  you  ever  hear  anything  like  him  1  Good-bye, 
then,  my  pet.  (To  Evel.)  Sorry  you  won't  come  with  us. 
I  really  think  that  if  Strauss  is  as  good  as  they  say,  I  shall 
have  to  come  back  and  carry  you  off'  after  all. 

[Uxeunt  Maj.  and  Mrs.  Symonds, 

Mrs.  C.  I  wonder,  Evelyn,  that  you  can  encourage 
your  uncle  in  his  ill-timed  pleasantries  by  laughing  at  them 
as  persistently  as  you  do. 

£vel.  (trying  not  to  laugh).     I  am  so  sorry,  Aunt  Diana 


A   Woman  of  Culture  log 

—  but  he  certainly  is  very  funny  sometimes,  don't  you  think 
so? 

Mrs.  C.  (gravely).  Not  in  the  least,  [Goes  to  table  at 
back.  Sandf.  and  Evel.  looking  at  each  other. ^^  Now,  Mr. 
Sandford,  what  about  writing  to  these  people  1 

Sandf.     Writing  to  .  .  .   ? 

Mrs.  C.  To  the  people  I  am  to  have  to  dinner  to  meet 
you. 

Sandf.  (confused).  Oh,  yes,  of  course — it  will  be  good 
of  you  to  write  to  them. 

Mrs.  C.     But  to  whom  1 

Sandf.  All  the  influential  people  you  can  think  of — as 
many  Cabinet  ministers  and  grand  old  statesmen  as  your 
dining-room  will  hold. 

Mrs.  C.  Very  well,  I  will  make  a  list.  Evelyn,  you 
must  entertain  Mr.  Sandford  while  I  write  my  letters. 

Evel.  (demurely).     Yes,  aunt,  I  will  try. 

Mrs.  C.  (to  Evel.)  Just  give  me  the  '  Court  Guide ' 
from  that  table,  will  you  ? 

[Evel.  gets  it  from  bookstand  on  table,  L. 

Mrs.  C.  (aside  to  Evel.)  And  remember  what  I  told 
you  about  talking  as  intelligently  as  you  can — I  want  my 
niece  to  make  a  favourable  impression  on  him. 

Evel.  (delighted).  Oh,  aunt,  how  good  you  are  !  (Aside) 
What  a  change  !  What  can  be  the  meaning  of  it,  I 
wonder  ? 

[Sits  on  sofa.  Sandf.  L.  of  table — he  drops  after- 
wards into  chair  behind  it  — Mrs.  C.  sitting  at 
writing -table  with  her  back  to  the  others. 

Sandf.  (to  E.el.)  Was  this  very  portentous-looking 
volume  the  one  you  were  studying  upstairs  ? 

Evel.     (Nods  silently). 

Sandf     What  on  earth  were  you  doing  it  for  ? 

Evel.     Because  I  was  told  ! 

Sandf.  '  Reports  on  Agriculture  !  '  I  shouldn't  have 
thought  that  was  much  in  your  line. 


iio  A   IVojnan  of  Culture 

Evel.     It  isn't. 

Sandf.  And  so,  in  order  to  read  this,  you  went  and  sat 
upstairs  all  the  time  I  was  here  ! 

Evel.     It  was  not  my  fault,  I  assure  you. 

Sandf.     Are  you  going  to  Lady  Danby's  to-night  1 

Evel.  No,  I'm  afraid  not — we  are  going  to  the  Royal 
Institution,  to  hear  Professor  Hibbert's  lecture  on  the 
Theory  of  Atoms. 

Sandf.  (contemptuously).     Theory  of  Grandmothers  ! 

Evel.     No — that's  Parwin  !  \^Bot]b  laugh. 

Sandf.  Atoms,  indeed — as  if  it  were  worth  while 
troubling  oneself  about  things  of  that  size  ! 

^Both  in  fits  of  laughter. 

Mrs.  C.  (looking  round  surprised).  What  is  the  matter? 
what  are  you  saying  1 

Sandf.  (gravely).  We  were  discussing  the  Theory  of 
Atoms. 

Mrs.  C.  (looks  dubious).  Oh,  indeed — most  deeply  in- 
teresting— we  shall  hear  all  about  it  at  Hibbert's  lecture 
this  evening. 

Sandf  (to  Mrs.  C.)  Don't  you  think  you  ought  to  go  to 
Lady  Danby's  instead  1  All  the  politicians  in  London  will 
be  there — we  shall  hear  what  is  said  about  Blackney, 

Mrs.  C.  That  is  true,  yes — perhaps  I  ought  to  go — I 
suppose  I  must  give  up  the  lecture.     [Evel.  looks  delighted. 

Mrs.  C.  But  that  is  no  i-eason  why  you  should  give  it 
up  too,  Evelyn — I  will  write  to  Miss  Poole  to  call  for  you, 
and  you  can  go  with  her. 

Evel.  Oh,  thank  you,  aunt — but  I  really  don't  care 
about  it. 

Mrs.  C.  Nonsense — you  would  care  still  less  about 
Lady  Dar.by's,  where  people  would  talk  of  nothing  but  the 
political  situation. 

Sand^  (aside  to  Evel.)  I  have  an  idea — I  will  go  to 
the  lecture  too ! 


A   Woman  of  Culture  1 1  r 

Evel.     Oh,  will  you  %     How  delightful  ! 

Enter  Maid. 

Maid.  Please,  ma'am,  a  deputation  from  the  Society  of 
Ancient  Buddhists  is  downstairs. 

Mrs.  C.  Dear  me,  I  wonder  if  I  must  see  them.  Is  it 
a  large  deputation  ? 

Maid.     Six  young  gentlemen,  ma'am,  and  one  old  lady. 

Mrs.  C.     Yery  well,  show  them  into  the  library. 

[Maid  he  itates. 

Mrs.  C.     Well,  what  is  it  ? 

Maid.  If  you  please,  ma'am,  three  members  of  the 
Society  of  New  Believers  of  the  East  arrived  at  the  same 
time,  and,  as  they  are  not  on  speaking  terms  with  the 
Ancient  Buddhists,  they  are  all  quarrelling  in  the  hall. 

Mrs.  C.  Oh,  how  very  shocking  I  these  feuds  are  most 
unedifying.     I  must  go  and  see  what  is  happening. 

[Exit  Mrs.  C.  hurriedly,  followed  by  Maid. 

Sandf.  How  kind  of  the  Old  Buddhists,  and  New 
Believers,  or  whatever  they  are  called  !  Do  you  know 
that  I  have  not  had  an  opportunity  of  speaking  to  you 
alone  for  more  than  a  week  ? 

Evel.  Yes,  I  know — just  a  week — not  since  the  ball  at 
Mrs.  Vernon's,  where  we  sat  under  the  stairs. 

Sandf.     And  there  is  so  much  I  want  to  say  to  you  ! 

Evel.  But  Aunt  Diana  told  me  you  would  like  me 
much  better  if  we  talked  about  other  things. 

Sandf.     Did  she  1     What  were  they  ? 

Evel.  Oh,  all  kinds  of  learned  subjects —  Household 
Suffrage — the  Channel  Tunnel — boring  by  compressed  air, 
especially. 

Sandf.  I  should  be  bored  by  compressed  conversation 
if  you  did,  I  can  tell  you  ! 

[As  door  opens,  Sandf,  v:ho  has  been  getting  closer  to 
Evel.,  moves  qmckly  away. 


112  A   Woman  of  Culture 

Enter  Mrs.  Chester, 

Mrs.  G.     What  were  you  two  talking  about  ? 

Sandf.  We  were  talking  about — boring  by  compressed 
air  ! 

Mrs.  C.  (looking  approvingly  at  Evel.)  A  most  in- 
teresting subject !  (I  balieve  she  might  be  made  something 
of  after  all,  if  she  would  follow  my  directions.) 

[Goes  hack  to  her  writing. 

Evel.     And  what  about  the  deputation  ? 

Mrs.  C.  Would  you  believe  that  they  had  every  one  of 
them  gone  when  I  got  downstairs,  because  the  two  parties 
wouldn't  wait  under  the  same  roof  !  I  have  no  patience 
with  them. 

Evel.  (to  Sandf.)  Perhaps,  like  the  Kilkenny  cats, 
they've  devoured  each  other. 

Sandf.  (to  Evel.)  Happy  thought — Kilkenny  Buddhis'^s 
— nothing  left  of  them  but  their  pigtails  !  [Both  lauyk. 

Evel.  Do  Buddhists  wear  pigtails  1  are  they  Chinese  ? 
I  am  very  vague  about  them. 

Sandf.     So  am  I.  [Both  laugh. 

Mrs.  C.     What  is  that  you  are  saying  1 

Evel.     Do  Buddhists  wear  pigtails,  Aunt  Diana  1 

Mrs.  C.  (angrily).  My  dear  girl  !  what  a  very  silly 
question  '  Mr.  Sandford,  do  enlighten  her — I  can't  bear 
to  hear  her  exposing  her  ignorance. 

Sandf.  (severely  to  Evel.)  No,  Miss  Barrington,  no — 
Buddhists  do  not  wear  pigtails — far  from  it  !  do  not 
think  it  for  a  moment  ! 

Evel.  (trying  not  to  laugh).     Then  what  do  they  wear  ? 

Sandf.  They  wear — they  wear — why,  that  depends 
on  the  weather,  I  suppose,  or  the  kind  of  party  they  are 
going  to  !  [Both  laugh. 

Mrs.  C.  (exasperated)  (aside).  Dear  me,  how  bored  the 
poor  fellow  must  be  at  all  this  giggling  !     (Aloud)  Evelyn, 


A  Woman  of  Culture  1 1 3 

tell  Mr.  Sandf  ord  about  that  blind  man  of  whom  I  was  speak- 
ing to  your  uncle — perhaps  he  can  do  something  for  him. 

Evel.  (to  Sandf.)     This  is  a  very  interesting  case 

Sandf.  (interrupts  her).  But  I  know  a  more  interesting 
one,  I  assure  you,  of  which  I  was  going  to  tell  you  just 
now — may  I  count  on  your  sympathy  ? 

Evel.     Yes— you  may. 

Sandf  Is  it  possible  that  you  can  be  so  blind — (aloud) 
so  very  blind 

Mrs.  C.  Ah,  yes,  indeed — quite  stone  blind — most 
distressing. 

Sandf  As  not  to  see  that  I  am  in  a  far  more  hopeless 
state  than  any  protege  of  youi-s  that  you  can  mention  ? 

Evel.  (aloud).     He  is  not  a  protege  of  mine,  exactly. 

3frs.  C.     We  are  all  much  interested  in  him. 

Sandf.  (to  Evel.)  My  malady  is  desperate — incurable. 
(Aloud)  Quite  incurable  ! 

Mrs.  C.  Incurable,  I  fear  so.  Still,  one  hears  of  such 
wonderful  recoveries  nowadays  with  this  new  treat- 
ment  

Enter  Maid. 

Maid.  Please,  ma'am,  the  Secretary  of  the  United 
Ghosts'  Club  is  downstairs,  and  wants  particularly  to  see 
you  for  a  minute.  [Gives  card. 

Mrs.  C.  (reads).  '  I  have  three  absolutely  authentic 
cases  of  apparition  to  communicate  to  you.  Can  you  spare 
me  a  few  moments  ? '  Oh,  how  wonderful  ! — that  makes 
937  !     I  must  go  and  hear  them — I  will  be  back  directly. 

[Exit  Mrs.  C. 

Sandf.  Most  delightful  United  Ghosts  !  Evelyn  !  my 
darling 

Evel.  Oh,  Mr.  Sandf  ord,  take  care — oh,  pray  take 
care  !  suppose  Aunt  Diana  were  to  come  in  again  ! 

Sandf.     Not  she — you  forget  that  she  has  to  listen  to 

I 


114  -^  Woman  of  Culture 

three  ghost  stories  !  she  won't  be  back  for  ever  so  long. 
We  are  alone,  at  last  !  Evelyn,  you  know  what  I  have 
to  say  to  you,  don't  you  % 

Evel.  (shyly).     Yes,  I  think  I  do. 

Sandf.  You  must  have  seen  that  I  cared  for  you,  have 
you  not  1  ever  since  that  night  we  first  met. 

Evel.  I  have  thought  sometimes  that  you  cared — but 
then  I  remembered  how  clever  you  are — and  how  stupid  I 
am — what  nonsense  I  talk  compared  to  you — and  so  I 
thought  it  was  impossible. 

Sandf.  Now  you  are  talking  nonsense,  certainly,  but  it 
is  the  first  time  I  have  ever  heard  you  do  so  !  You  know 
quite  well  that  the  only  impossible  thing  is  that  I  shouldn't 
care  for  you — so  make  up  your  mind  to  that  !  Evelyn — do 
you  care  for  me  at  all  ? 

Evel.     Yes. 

Sandf.     How  much  1  a  little  ? 

Evel.     Yes — a  little. 

Sandf.     More  than  a  little  1 

Evel.     More  than  a  little. 

Sandf.     A  great  deal  % 

Evel.     A  great  deal. 

Sandf     More  than  a  great  deal  1 

Evel.     More  than  a  great  deal. 

Sandf.  My  own  !  .  .  How  good  it  is  of  you  to  care 
for  me  !  why  do  you,  I  wonder  1 

Evel.  I  really  don't  know — I  suppose  because  it  never 
occurred  to  me  to  do  anything  else  !  why  do  you  care  for  me  ? 

Sandf.  Because  you  are  sweeter,  and  nicer,  and  more 
charming  than  anyone  else  in  the  world — and  because  I 
want  you  for  my  wife  ! 

Evel.  Do  you  really  think  me  nicer  than  anybody  else  ? 
are  you  sure  1 

Sandf.     Of  course  I  am — quite  sure. 

Evel.     Oh,  I'm  so  glad  !   do  you  know,  I  was   really 


A  Woman  of  Culture  1 1 5 

getting  quite  unhappy  about  myself,  for  Aunt  Diana   is 
always  telling  me  how  dull  I  am  ! 

Sandf.     Is  site  1 

Evel.  Oh  yes  —she  thinks  me  very  tiresome  indeed,  I 
assure  you. 

Sandf.  Darling,  that  must  be  because  you  won't  talk 
to  her  on  the  subjects  which  interest  her — you  know  how 
very  keen  she  is  about  politics,  for  instance,  and  all  public 
questions — she  is  a  very  superior  woman,  of  a  great  deal 
of  culture. 

Evel.  (with  a  sigh).  Yes,  I  suppose  she  is  !  do  you  like 
women  of  culture  ? 

Sandf.     I  like  Mrs.  Chester,  certainly. 

Evel.     But  you  don't  like  her  better  than  you  do  me  1 

Sandf.  Better  than  you  ?  my  own  love,  what  folly  !  I 
like  her  in  quite  a  different  way.  She  has  been  to  me  one 
of  the  best  friends  a  man  ever  had — she  has  constantly 
helped  me  with  her  sympathy  and  advice — I  admire  and 
respect  her — but  of  course  I  should  never  dream  of  being  in 
love  with  her  !  I  would  as  soon  think  of  falling  in  love 
with  my  sister,  or  my  aunt ! 

Evel.  (with  a  sudden  thought).  Why,  only  think  ! — if 
— if — I  were  to  marry  you,  you  know,  as  you  suggested 

Sandf.  *If  ?'  there  is  no  '  if '  in  the  matter.  Of  coui-se 
you  are  going  to  marry  me  ! 

Evel.  Why  then,  Mrs.  Chester  would  be  your  aunt, 
wouldn't  she  1  oh,  how  funny !  I  wonder  if  she  would 
like  it  ? 

Sandf.  (surprised).     Why  shouldn't  she  1 

Evel.  Because — because — no — I  ought  not  to  say  this  ! 
do  you  mean  to  say  you  have  never  guessed  it  ? 

Sandf.  (bewildered).     Guessed  what  ? 

Evel.  It  is  only  an  idea  of  mine,  of  course — and  I  dare 
say  I  am  mistaken — but  I  used  sometimes  to  think  that — 
that — she  cared  a  little  for  you  herself  ! 

i2 


1 1 6  A   Wojiian  of  Culture 

Sand/.  Mrs.  Chester  !  ha,  ha  !  what  fin  absurd  idea  ! 
there  never  was  a  more  mistaken  notion,  I  assure  you  ! 
Nothing  could  be  further  from  her  thoughts  ! 

Evel.  I  am  glad  of  that — for,  to  tell  you  the  truth,  I 
am  feeling  rather  anxious  as  to  what  she  will  say  to  us — 
she  is  my  guardian,  you  know,  and  I  can  do  nothing  with- 
out her  consent — think  how  dreadful  it  would  be  if  she 
refused  it  ! 

Sand/.  It  would,  indeed  !  but  I  don't  think  you  need 
be  anxious  on  that  score — I  spoke  to  her  before  you  came 
down  this  afternoon,  and  I  think  she  will  be  favourable 
to  us. 

Bvel.  But  how  was  it  that  you  ventured  to  speak  to 
anyone  about  me  without  having  asked  me  first  1  how  did 
you  know  I  should  accept  you  1 

Sand/  I  relied  on  the  sweet,  silent  consent  of  your 
eyes,  that  have  so  often  told  their  tale,  though  your  tongue 
has  been  mute.  Besides,  (smiling)  I  was  rather  bound 
to  tell  Mrs.  Chester,  as  I  once  promised  her  I  would  never 
take  any  important  step  in  my  life  without  consulting  her. 

Evel.  I  don't  think  that  was  at  all  a  good  plan  !  I 
don't  like  having  people's  advice  asked  about  me.  Suppose 
she  had  advised  you  not  to  propose  to  me,  what  should  you 
have  done  then  ? 

Sand/  I  should  have  done  it  all  the  same,  of  course  ! 
I  promised  I  would  ask  her  advice — I  did  not  say  I 
would  take  it  ! 

Evel.     In  that  case,  it  is  different — I  forgive  you. 

Sand/     Show  me  how  you  forgive  me. 

Evel.     No— Mr.  Sandford 

Sand/     Don't  you  know  what  my  name  is  ? 

Evel.     Yes. 

Sand/     Then  why  don't  you  call  me  by  it  1 

Evel.  (shyly).     I  can't — I  can't  say  it. 

Sand/     What  can't  you  say  1 


A   Woman  of  Culture  117 

Evel.     I  can't  say — Herbert ! 

Sandf.  There — ^you  see  how  easy  it  is  !  now  you  have 
mastered  that,  you  shall  go  on  to  the  next  exercise — say, 
'  Herbert,  I  love  you  ! ' 

Evel.  Oh,  no — that's  much  too  difficult  !  you  forget 
how  stupid  I  am — you  mustn't  expect  me  to  get  on  as  fast 
as  that  ! 

\^Door  opens — Sand/,  and  Evel.  jiy  apart — enter 
Maj.  Symonds.  Evel.  stands  L.,  Sandf.  R.,  with 
their  hacks  to  door,  not  daring  to  look  round. 

Maj.  S.     Ahem  !  ,  . 

\Evel.  turns  round,  andjlies  into  his  arms. 

Evel.  Oh,  dear  uncle,  it  is  you  !  I  am  so  glad  !  you 
are  the  very  person  we  want  ! 

Maj.  S.  Why,  what  is  the  matter  now  1  what  do  you 
want  me  for,  Evelyn  !  is  the  conversation  getting  too 
intellectual  for  you,  eh  ?       [Evel.  U.,  Maj.  S.  C,  SandJ.  L. 

Evel.     No,  so  far  I  have  understood  it  very  well  indeed. 

Sandf.  Yes,  sir,  I  think  that  we  have  thoroughly 
mastered  our  subject. 

Maj.  S.  Indeed  ?  and  pray  what  is  the  subject,  may  I 
ask  ?  is  it  the  Kedistribution  Bill,  or  the  Mutual  Improve- 
ment Society  ? 

Sandf.  It  is  a  mutual  improvement  society,  on  a 
small  scale — consisting  of  only  two  members  !  Major 
Symonds,  I  have  asked  your  niece  to  be  my  wife. 

Maj.  S.  (delighted).  The  deuce  you  have  !  and  a  most 
sensible  thing  to  do  !  My  dear  sir,  I  congratulate  you — I 
do,  with  all  my  heart !  \Gives  him  his  hand. 

Sandf.  Then  may  I  hope  that,  as  one  of  her  guardians, 
you  will  give  your  consent  ? 

Maj.  S.  Of  course  I  will — as  her  sole  guardian,  my 
good  friend,  her  sole  guardian  ! 

Evel.     My  sole  guardian  1 

Sandf.     Her  sole  guardian  ? 


1 1 8  A   Wojnan  of  Culture 

Evel.  What,  is  not  Aunt  Diana  my  guardian  any 
longer  ? 

Sandf.     Is  not  her  consent  necessary  too  1 

\Maj.  S.  standing  between  them,  shaking  his  head 
and  rubbing  his  hands. 

Maj.  S.  Mrs.  Chester,  overwhelmed  by  the  cares  of 
state,  and  unable  to  manage  such  a  troublesome  young 
woman  as  Evelyn,  finally  made  up  her  mind  this  morning 
to  resign  her  office,  and  signed  a  deed  making  over  all  her 
powers  and  responsibilities  in  the  matter  to  me. 

Evel.     Oh,  uncle,  did  she  really  1  is  it  actually  signed  ? 

Maj.  S.  Not  only  signed,  but  in  the  possession  of  Mr. 
Deeds,  the  lawyer,  to  whom  I  posted  it  at  once,  and  who 
has  it  in  his  safe  keeping. 

Evel.  Oh,  how  delightful !  to  think  of  your  being  my 
sole  guardian  !  then  I  need  not  obey  anybody  else  ever 
again,  as  long  as  I  live. 

Maj.  S.  Hey-day !  then  what  about  my  young  friend 
here  1  are  you  never  going  to  obey  him  ? 

Evel.     Of  course  not  !  what  an  absurd  idea  ! 

Maj.  S.  That's  a  pleasant  look-out  for  you,  Sandford, 
I  must  say  ! 

Sand/,  (smiling).  I  am  not  at  all  afraid  of  the  prospect, 
sir,  thank  you. 

Maj.  S.  Well,  I  am  bound  to  sr.y  my  wife  never  obeyed 
me  in  her  life — it  is  always  I  who  am  ordered  about,  and 
liave  to  do  as  I  am  told  !  And  bless  me !  that  reminds  me 
—  she  is  waiting  downstairs  in  the  carriage  all  this  time.  I 
came  here  with  a  message,  my  dear  (To  Evel.),  but  you 
put  it  out  of  my  head,  with  all  this  folly  !  your  Aunt  Lucy 
would  insist  on  coming  back  here  again,  to  fetch  you  to 
hear  Strauss's  band. 

Evel.  (laughing).  I  really  don't  think  I  can  go  and 
hear  it  this  afternoon,  uncle — I  am  very  busy — very  busy 
indeed. 


A   Woman  of  Culture  119 

Maj.  S.  (going).  Very  well,  then,  I  will  go  down  and 
tell  your  aunt  you  won't  come — she  will  be  wondering  what 
has  become  of  me. 

Evel.  No,  no — you  mustn't  go  away  before  Aunt  Diana 
comes  in — you  must  not,  really. 

Maj.  S.     ^Vhere  is  she  ? 

Sandf.     She  is  downstairs  with  a  ghost. 

Maj.  S.     What  1  .  .  . 

Evel.  With  the  United  Ghosts'  secretarj%  listening  to 
three  well-autlienticated  ghost  stories  !  oh  dear,  it  makes 
nie  shudder  to  think  of  them.  I've  heard  so  many  since 
I  have  been  here,  that  every  time  the  door  opens  it  makes 
uie  jump  !  \^Door  opens  suddenly,  Evel.  starts. 

Enter  Mrs.  Symonds. 

Mrs.  S.  Well !  I  came  up  to  see  what  you  were  doing 
all  this  time.     What  have  you  been  about,  John  ? 

Maj.  S.  Ah,  you  may  well  ask — ^you  don't  know  what 
dreadful  things  have  been  happening  here  ! 

[Mrs.  S.  looks  at  Evel.  and  ,Sanclf.,  who  are  standing 
together,  looking  conscious. 

Mrs.  S.  What,  Evelyn,  my  little  girl — and  Mr.  Sand- 
ford — it  surely  can't  be 

Maj.  S.  Yes,  it  is  though,  I  assure  you  I  Did  you 
ever  hear  of  two  such  foolish  young  people  ?  the  very 
moment  they  are  left  alone,  instead  of  talking  about 
the  election,  or  unearned  increment,  or  something  equally 
interesting,  they  must  needs  go  and  propose  to  one 
another  I 

Mrs.  /S'.  (delighted).     Evelyn,  my  darling  !     [Kisses  her. 

Evel.  Don't  say  '  proposed  to  one  another,'  uncle, 
please  !  it  was  only  one  of  us  who  proposed. 

Maj.  S.  But  the  other  one  agreed  I — you  are  an 
accessory  before  the  fact,  there  is  no  denying  it ! 


I20  A   Woman  of  Culture 

Mrs.  S.     And  what  does  your  Aunt  Diana  say  to  it  ? 
Maj.  S.     She  doesn't  know  yet  ! 

[Smiling  aside  at  his  wif 
Evel.  (anxiously).     Here  she  comes,  I  think. 

[All  wait  in  suspense. 

Enter  Mrs.  Chester. 

Mrs.  C.  I  am  afraid  I  have  been  a  very  long  time.  Why, 
Lucy — and  John  !  I  did  not  know  you  were  here.  (Aside) 
For  once  I  am  glad  to  see  them,  as  it  must  have  relieved 
the  tedium  of  that  incongruous  tete-a-tete  ! 

Mrs.  S.  Yes,  we  came  back  again,  to  see  if  Evelyn 
would  come  with  us  to  hear  the  band. 

Maj.  S.  But  we  found  she  couldn't  come — being 
engaged  I ! 

Mrs.  C.     Why,  what  is  she  going  to  do  ? 

Maj.  S.  Can't  you  guess  1  what  do  you  suppose  these 
young  people  have  been  doing,  while  you  were  downstaiis 
listening  to  ghost  stories  ? 

Mrs.  C.     I  have  absolutely  no  idea. 

[Mrs.  Symonds,  R. — Maj.  S.,  R.  C. — Mrs.  Chester, 
C. — Evel.,  L.  C. — Sandford,  L. 

Maj.  S.  Look  at  them — juvenile  offenders  appearing 
before  the  Board  of  Guardians  !  [Mrs.  C.  starts. 

Sandf.  (going  to  Mrs.  C.)  [Mrs.  S.  crosses  to  speak  to 
Evelyn\  Dear  Mrs.  Chester,  after  what  I  told  you  to-day 
of  my  love  for  your  niece,  you  will  know  what  we  have  to 
tell  you. 

Jfrs.  C.  (bewildered).  Mr.  Sandford  ! — is  it  pos- 
sible—— • 

Sandf.  (astonished).  Did  you  not  tell  me  yourself  that 
we  might  count  on  your  sympathy  and  support  1  that  you 
wished  to  see  us  attached  to  each  other  ? 

Mrs.  C.  (recovering  herself).  I  did — yes — only — only 
— I  am  a  little  taken  by  surprise,  as  I  did  not  know  you 


A  Woman  of  Culture  1 2 1 

contemplated  such  a  very  immediate  step — I  must  have 
a  moment  to  reflect,  before  I  can  give  my  consent. 

\Goes,  R. — Major  S.  follows  her. 

Maj.  S.  (to  Mrs.  C.)  But  if  you  are  too  busy  about 
the  election,  or  the  ghosts,  to  be  able  to  give  any  time  to 
this,  it  does  not  matter — there  is  no  need  for  you  to  worry 
yourself  about  it — for  you  will  remember  that,  since  you 
signed  that  paper  this  morning  [  With  assumed  carelessness^ 
the  whole  responsibility  of  Evelyn's  vagaries  now  rests  on 
my  unfortunate  shoulders,  as  I  am  her  sole  guardian. 

Mrs.  C.     Ah,  that  is  true  ! — where  is  that  paper  1 

Maj.  S.  (carelessly).  It  is  at  Mr.  Deeds',  in  Lincoln's 
Inn — I  sent  it  to  him  at  once,  as  I  never  like  carrying  a 
legal  document  loose  in  my  pocket,  for  fear  it  should 
explode  ! 

[Goes  ha^h  to  the  others,  leaving  Mrs.  C.  plunged  in 
thought. 

Mrs.  C.  (aside).  Yes,  it  is  true — I  am  powerless  to 
prevent  it,  even  if  I  wished  it — but  I  don't  think  I  do  !  a 
man  who  can  consecrate  his  life  to  a  girl  of  that  type  is 
not  worth  having.  How  I  have  been  mistaken  in  him  ! 
However,  no  one  shall  ever  know,  he  least  of  all,  that 
I  misinterpreted  his  words  to  me — and  after  all  these 
things  are  a  great  waste  of  time — I  am  well  out  of  such 
follies  !  v> 

Evel.  (advancing,  timidly).  Dear  Aunt  Diana,  you  are 
not  vexed  with  me  1 

Mrs.  C.  (with  extreme  cordiality).  Vexed,  my  dear 
child,  how  could  you  imagine  such  a  thing  1  on  the  contrary, 
I  am  delighted  ! — the  only  reason  that  I  was  a  little  taken 
aback  was,  that  I  did  not  expect  it  quite  so  soon^ — I  should 
like  you  to  have  had  a  little  more  time  for  cultivation  and 
improvement  before  becoming  Mr.  Sandford's  wife — but 
\  you  must  do  your  best. 

£vel.     Indeed,  dear   aunt,  I  will — and   you  will  help 


122  A   Woman  of  Culture 

me,  won't  you,  and  tell  me  what  I  must  read,  in  order  to 
become  less  ignorant  ? 

Sandf.  And  I  will  sit  by  you  with  a  dictionary,  to 
explain  the  words  you  don't  understand  ! 

Mrs.  S.  Why,  Evelyn,  in  another  year  you  will  be  so 
learned  and  clever,  we  shall  hardly  know  you  again  ! 

Maj.  S.  (to  Evel.)  Yes,  my  little  girl  !  by  that  time 
even  i/ou  will  be  on  the  high  road  to  becoming — a  Woman 
of  Culture  ! 

Cu7'tain. 


123 


IN  A   FIEST-CLASS   WAITING-EOOM 

COMEDIETTA   IN  OJVE  ACT. 
CHARACTERS. 

Miss  Selina  Timmersome.  JIr.  Walter  Graham. 

A  Railway  Porter. 

Scene. — A  Waiting-room  at  Jiarningham  Station — - 
benches,  advertisements,  &c.  Fireplace  left-hand  corner. 
Door  R. 

Enter  Porter  carrying  luggage,  followed  hy  Miss 
Timmersome. 

Porter.     This  way,  mum,  this  way. 

[^Putting  downhundh. 

Miss  Timmersome  (looking  round).  Is  this  the  first- 
class  waiting-room  ? 

Porter.  Well,  mum — the  fact  is,  that  this  is  the  only 
sort  of  waiting-room  we  have  just  now — a  sort  of  general 
waiting-room,  do  you  see  1 — as  the  first-class  ladies'  is  being 
papered,  and  the  first-class  gentlemen  being  whitewashed 
— and  so  everybody  has  to  use  this. 

Miss  Timmersome.  Then  do  you  mean  to  say  that 
anyone  who  likes  may  come  in  here  ?  that  I  shall  be  ex- 
posed to  the  company  of  the  ruffians  who  infest  railway 
stations  1 

Porter.  Not  many  ruflians  at  this  time  of  the  year, 
mum — they're  not  in  season  yet — they  generally  come 
later  on,  for  Barningham  races. 


124  ^^  <^  First-Class  Waiting-Room 

Miss  TivDiiersome.  Good  heavens  !  I  wonder  if  I  am 
in  safety  here  ?  [Looks  nervously  round  her. 

Porter.  Oh,  quite,  mum,  I  assure  you.  This  room 
has  been  cleaned  and  done  up  since  the  spring  races,  so 
there  can't  have  been  any  ruffians  left  in  the  corners. 
[Looking  about,  goes  to  door — turns  round.'\  If  you  want 
anything,  mum,  just  step  to  the  door  and  call  me,  will  you  1 

Miss  Tim/mersome.  Oh,  thank  you,  I  will.  What  is 
your  name  ? 

Porter.  My  name  is  Alexander  Magillicuddy,  but  I 
don't  know  that  I  should  recognise  it  if  I  heard  it  unex- 
pectedly— {reflectively)  if  it's  anything  very  special  you 
might  call  me  by  it  and  see  — if  not,  then  just  call  Porter 
— and  if  I'm  not  there,  some  one  else  will  come 

Miss  Tinimersome.  Oh,  are  you  sure  ?  sometimes,  when 
I've  called  Porter,  nobody  has  come,  and  I  remember  the 
same  thing  once  happened  to  one  of  my  aunts. 

Porter.  You  don't  say  so,  mum  !  I  never  heard  of 
such  a  thing  before  !  Nothing  of  that  kind  happens  here. 
I'll  come  to  tell  you  when  your  train  is  coming,  mum 
— you've  half  an  hour  yet.  \Going,  then  turns  hack^  Oh, 
I  forgot  the  tire. 

\Pokes  the  fire,  gathers   the  fire-irons   together  and 
takes  them,  away. 

Miss  Timm,ersome.  Why  are  you  taking  the  fire-irons 
away  1     I  shall  not  be  able  to  poke  the  fire,  if  I  wish  to  ! 

Porter.  No  one  but  the  servants  of  the  Railway  Com- 
pany pokes  the  fire  here,  mum,  with  the  permission  of  the 
Company,  or  with  anything  else  either.  Certainly  not 
with  a  poker,  which  is  tlte  most  mischievous  instrument 
that  was  ever  invented  for  making  the  fire  burn  up,  and 
wasting  the  Company's  fuel  !  [^Bell  rings.^  There's  the 
express !  \Going.^^  I'll  come  and  tell  you,  mum,  when  your 
train  comes  in.     You've  plenty  of  time  yet.  \^Exit. 

Miss  Timmersome.     What  a  difficult  and  alarmingr  thinij 


In  a  First-Class  Waiting-Rooin  125 

a  journey  is  for  a  solitaiy  woman  !  If  only  I  had  a  father 
— or  a  brother — or  (coyly)  even  a  husband — it  would  make 
me  feel  so  much  safer  !  but  I  have  no  one.  The  one  relation 
I  have  in  the  world  is  a  cousin,  in  India,  so  I  am  quite 
unprotected.  Dear  Walter  !  he  writes  me  such  nice  letters 
every  Christmas — I  have  not  seen  him  since  he  was  six 
years  old.  I  wonder  what  he  is  like  now  ?  I  sometimes 
think  that  when  he  comes  home,  we  shall  ....  meet  ! 
but  goodness  knows  when  that  will  be.  \^Looks  at  watch.^  I 
wish  I  had  something  to  read.  Ah,  here  is  a  newspaper — 
that  is  something  at  any  rate.  And  it  is  the  interesting 
part  too — the  advertisement  sheet.  [Sits  down  to  read.^ 
'  Fifty  pounds  reward — A  diamond  brooch — Five  shillings 
a  bunch  of  keys — Two-pounds-ten  a  lap-dog.'  I  remember, 
when  I  was  a  child  I  used  to  think  how  delightful  it 
would  be  to  meet  with  the  missing  object  and  claim  the 
reward — Not  if  it  were  a  thief  or  a  murderer  though. 
'  500^.  reward — Missing  from  Pentington  Prison,  since  the 
21st  instant,  Henry  Brownlow,  aged  30.  Medium  height — 
dark  complexion,  saturnine  cast  of  features,  a  deep  scar  on 
his  right  hand — hair  closely  cropped,  face  clean-shaven,  or 
beard  of  few  days'  growth — last  seen  in  the  neighbourhood 
of  Blackney.'  Dreadful  to  think  he  is  still  at  large  I  but  I 
am  glad  he  is  in  the  neighbourhood  of  Blackney,  as  that  is  a 
long  way  from  here,  but  still,  that  means  nothing — as  seeing 
himself  described  as  being  at  Blackney,  he  would  probably 
go  somewhere  else,  as  far  off  as  possible.  Supposing  he  were 
to  come  here  !  Oh  dear,  I  feel  very  nervous — I  don't  know 
whether  to  wish  that  anyone  should  come  in,  or  not  .  .  . 

Enter  Graham  carrying  rugs,  d:c.     Miss  Timmersome 
shrinks  into  her  corner  with  great  timidity. 

Graham  (heartily).     Very  cold  to-day  ! 

[^[iss  Timmersome  makes  no  answer, 
Graham  (louder).     Very  cold  indeed  to-day  ! 


126  In  a  First-Class  Waiting- Room 

Miss  Tim?nersome  (nervously).     Very. 

Graham  (going  to  tire).  They  don't  seem  to  keep  up 
very  good  fires  here,  either.  [Looks  about  everywhere  for 
the  fire-irons.  Miss  Tinimersome  says  nothing.^  I  wonder 
where  the  fire-irons  are  kept  ? 

Miss  Tinimersome.  The  porter  has  taken  away  the 
tire-irons. 

Graham.  Taken  away  the  fire-irons  !  How  very  odd  ! 
what  for  ? 

Miss  Tinimersome.  So  that  no  one  might  poke  tlie  tire. 
He  says  it  wastes  the  Company's  fuel. 

Graham,.  Then  he  must  think  that  the  people  who 
wait  in  here  must  be  people  of  very  limited  capacity  indeed, 
not  to  poke  the  fire  because  the  poker's  gone  !  what  do 
chairs  have  legs  for  then  ? 

Miss  Timniersome  (starts.  Aside).  I  believe  he  is  of 
unsound  mind  !  .  .  .  Chairs  ....  Legs?  really  ....  (Aloud) 
I  should  say,  to  walk  with — I  mean  to  sit  down  with — at 
any  rate,  they  have  nothing  to  do  with  poking  the  fire. 

Graham.  If  you  had  ever  been  a  school-boy  you 
wouldn't  say  so  ! 

Miss  Timmersome.     I  never  was  ! 

Graham.  At  the  school  I  was  brought  up  at,  we  used 
to  inscribe  a  word  on  a  door  with  the  blackened  leg  of  a 
chair,  some  weeks  before  the  holidays,  and  rubbing  out  a 
letter  every  week.  I  will  give  the  Directors  of  the  Com- 
pany an  opportunity  of  recalling  their  past  youth  !  So 
here  goes  !  [Seizes  up  chair  and  jtokes  the  fire  violently. 

Miss  l'imm£rsome.  Oh,  dear  me,  you'll  break  its 
leg! 

Graham.  And  if  I  do,  I  believe  that  all  the  railway 
porters  are  made  to  attend  ambulance  classes  nowadays,  so 
that  they  will  be  able  to  bind  it  up  again.  Besides,  I 
won't  break  it — only  blacken  it  a  little.  [Poking  vigorously. '\ 
I  dare  say  it  won't  be  the  first  blackleg  that  has  appeared 


In  a  First-Class  Waiting- Room  127 

at  this  station.  I  only  wish  all  the  others  could  be  as 
easily  sat  upon  as  this  one !  \Looks  up  at  Miss  Timmersome 
and  smiles.  She  is  stony. ^  (Aside)  That  joke  wasn't  very 
successful,  I'm  afraid.  Never  mind — 1  enjoyed  it  ! 
\^Finishes  poking  and  puts  doion  chair  unth  a  hang.^ 
There  now  !  the  next  Director  who  '  takes  the  chair '  at  a 
meeting  had  better  take  care  that  it  isn't  that  one  he  takes, 
or  the  consequences  would  be  surprising  !  \Draws  it  up  to 
the  fire  and  sits  down  cautiously^  It  is  a  little  rickety, 
certainly — it  is  more  like  a  rocking-chair  now,  but  there  is 
no  harm  done.  \^All  this  time  Miss  Timmersome  pays  no 
attention.  Graham  takes  off  his  hat  and  puts  on  a  travel- 
ling cap^  I  must  apologise  for  keeping  my  head  covered, 
but  the  fact  is,  that  I  have  just  had  a  fever,  after  which 
my  hair  was  cut  very  short — so  I  am  obliged  to  be  very 
careful,  especially  when  sitting  in  a  room  which  is  about 
as  sheltered  as  a  breezy  common  !  \Pulls  coat  collar  up?^ 
There  are  as  many  draughts  here  as — as — on  a  draught- 
board !     Ha  !  ha  ! 

\^Liss  Timmersome  snatches  tremulously  at  papyer. 

Miss  Timmersome  (aside).  Hair  closely  cropped  !  Oh, 
it  must  be  only  a  coincidence. 

Graham  (reading  oft'  paper  on  wall,  crosses  and  reads  oft 
time  table).  How  very  badly  the  connection  of  trains  is 
managed  in  England  !  At  this  station,  for  instance,  here 
are  five  trains  get  in  from  Dodgeborough  during  the  day — 
and  they  one  and  all  get  here  just  after  another  train  has 
left  to  go  somewhere  else — don't  matter  where — and  then 
one  has  to  wait  ever  so  long.  Has  it  been  fine  in  this  part 
of  the  world  to-day  ? 

Miss  Timmersome.  I  really  don't  know — I  only  arrived 
here  from  Crosswell  at  two  o'clock — there  it  was  fine. 

GraJmm.  Oh,  I  asked  because  the  showery  weather 
has  been  very  local.  At  Blackney,  for  instance,  where  I 
was  yesterday 


128  In  a  First- Class  Waiting- Room 


Timmersome.     Blackney  !  .  .  .  Ah  !  .  . 
[(S'AWefe,  /alls  back  in  chair,  rises  and  goes  up  stage. 
Graham  goes  to  her  to  see  what  is  the  matter — she 
waves  him  hack  still  m^ore  violently. 

Miss  Timmersome.     Go  away  !     Go  away  ! 

[Barricades  herself. 

Graham  (aside).  She  must  be  a  lunatic,  I  think — what 
can  be  the  matter  ?  I  wonder  if  she  is  mad — it's  dangerous 
to  be  shut  up  with  her ! 

Miss  Timmersome  (agitated — taking  up  paper,  reads 
description  aside).  '  Henry  Brownlow,  aged  30 — medium 
height,  dark  complexion,  saturnine  cast  of  features — a  deep 
scar  on  his  right  hand,  hair  closely  cropped,  face  cleanly 
shaven,  or  beard  of  a  few  days'  growth — last  seen  at 
Blackney.'  Alas  !  It  is  all  too  plain — there  can  be  no 
mistake. 

Graham.  I'm  sure  she  is  insane — there  can't  be  a 
doubt  of  it  !  I  see  it  in  the  anxious  glare  of  her  eye  when 
she  looks  at  me — these  maniacs  are  always  suspicious  of 
violence  being  done  them.  [Miss  Timmersome  has  retreated 
into  the  furthest  corner  of  the  room,,  and  barricaded  Jierself 
with  a  chair.  Graham  looks  nervously  at  her.]  I  hope  she 
won't  attempt  any  violence — I  believe  they  possess  super- 
human strength  at  these  times.  I  wish  I  had  sat  on  the 
other  side  of  the  fire — if  I  go  away  she  may  spring  at  me  as 
I  pass  !  I  had  better  humour  her  in  all  she  says.  (Aloud, 
with  exaggerated  heartiness  of  manner)  Yes,  very  unfor- 
tunate weather  for  travelling,  is  it  not  ?  However,  even 
this  drizzling  mist,  with  the  fresh  country  air  blowing 
through  it,  is  acceptable  to  me  after  being  imprisoned  so 
long  in  London. 

Miss  Timmersome  (aside).  Imprisoned  ! — there  is  no 
further  concealment  in  the  matter.  I  don't  want  to  arouse 
his  suspicions  by  going  away — I  must  simply  niakethe  best 
of  it  until  I  see  a  porter  outside. 


In  a  First-Class  Waiting-Room  129 

Gralio.in.  Ah,  London  is  a  very  horrid  place  of  deten- 
tion for  those  who  love  the  country.  [J/i'ss  Timmersoinit 
doesn't  answer.]  (Aside)  I  must  rouse  her  out  of  herself. 
It  appears  to  be  a  melancholy  madness.  Don't  you  think 
so,  madam  1  London,  I  was  saying  \yery  loud\,  is  a  most 
tantalising  place  of  confinement  to  the  lover  of  the  country. 

Miss  Timmersome  (flurried).  I  dare  say — I  have  no 
experience  of  it. 

Graham.  Really  ?  Have  you  never  been  to  London  ? 
You  surprise  me. 

Jfiss  Timmersome.  Oh,  yes — of  course  I've  been  to 
London — but  not  in  that  way. 

Graham.  In  that  way?  [Betvildered.]  Do  you  mean  not 
by  train  ?  It  is  rather  too  far  for  a  walk,  is  it  not,  from 
most  parts  of  England  ?  (Aside)  She  won't  feel  so  singular, 
perhaps,  if  she  hears  me  talking  like  a  maniac  too — it  will 
be  company  for  her  ! 

Miss  Timmersome.     I  mean  that  when  I  have  been  in 

London  I  have  always  been  at  large — at  least ■  (Aside) 

I  really  don't  know  what  to  say — I  am  afraid  of  offending 
him,  and  then  he  might  spring  upon  me  and  murder  me  on 
the  spot  ! 

Graham.  At  large  ?  Have  you,  indeed  ?  (Aside)  I 
wonder  at  that — I  suppose  the  poor  thing  means  she  has 
never  been  in  an  asylum  there !  (Aloud)  It's  a  very  pleasant 
place  to  be  at  large  in,  I  dare  say,  though  my  experience  of 
it  is  being  always  chained  to  the  same  spot.  The  people  who 
are  at  liberty  to  roam  about  the  fields,  and  enjoy  them- 
selves at  their  own  sweet  will,  don't  appreciate  their  free- 
dom — they  don't  know  what  it  is  to  be  a  galley  slave  ! 

Miss  Timmersome  (starts.     Aside).     Is  it  possible  that 

there   can  be    any  further   doubt  about  it — and   yet 

{Heads)  '  A  scar  on  the  right  hand.'  I  have  not  seen  that 
yet — there  may  be  a  chance  still.  I  wish  I  could  make  him 
show  it  to  me,  somehow.     [Watcfies  him.     He  m^cfuinically 


130  In  a  First-Class  Waiting- Room 

puts  his  hand  into  his  pocket.^  It  is  evident  he  is  hiding  it. 
1  will  try  to  make  him  show  it.  (Aloud)  Don't  you  tliink 
the  fire  wants  poking  a  little  1 

Graham.  Do  you  think  it  does  ?  Perhaps  you  are 
right.  [Fukes  it  vigorously  with  his  foot. 

Miss  Timmersome  (aside).  What  a  savage,  to  use  his 
feet  instead  of  his  hands  !  He  must  be  a  convict.  But  I 
vnll  make  hiin  take  it  out.  (Aloud)  Would  you  kindly 
pass  me  that — that— volume  lying  on  the  chimney-piece  1 

Graham  (takes  it  up  and  looks  at  title  without  handing 
it).  Is  this  what  you  want,  madam  ?  I  don't  think  you 
will  find  it  very  pleasant  reading — it  is  the  cover  of  an  old 
Railway  Guide,  with  the  bewildering  inside  torn  out  ! 
The  only  piece  of  information  it  contains  is,  on  one  side 
Horniraan's  Pure  Tea,  and  on  the  other  Powell's  Balsam  of 
Aniseed,  with  an  interesting-looking  lion  just  recovering 
from  a  cold  !     Is  this  what  you  want  ? 

Miss  Tiinm^rsoTne.  Yes,  it  is  what  I  want — give  it 
me,  I  entreat  you — you  dare  not  refuse  me  ! 

Graham.  Certainly,  certainly — here  it  is  [Hands  it 
with  his  left  hand]  —  only  I'm  afraid  it  won't  be  very  profit- 
able reading.  (Aside)  I  always  wondered  who  the  people 
were  who  bought  things  from  these  advertisements — I  see 
all  now — they  are  lunatics  !  [Miss  I'immersome  looks  at  it 
for  a  TTiinute,  then  tosses  it  down.]  Ah,  it  isn't  equal  even  to 
her  intellect,  I  see.  (Aloud)  Find  it  pleasant  reading  1 
I  don't  think  the  plot  is  fully  developed — there  are  not 
enough  incidents  in  it  for  my  taste — a  work  which  consists 
of  nothing  but  the  frontispiece  and  one  of  the  covers  seems 
to  me  rather  incomplete,  don't  it  to  you  1  Ha,  ha  !  I'll  go 
and  see  if  I  can  get  a  newspaper,  with  rather  more  infor- 
mation in  it.  [Brit.     Miss  Timmersome  comes  forward. 

Miss  Tiinmerscme.     He  is  talking  quite  at  random  - 
quite  wildly  !  can  he  be  insane  ?    I  have  heard  sometimes 
of  the  pressure  of  remorse,   and   the  dread  of  discovery. 


In  a  First- Class  Waiting- Room  1 3 1 

driving   criminals  out   of   their  mind — what  an  appalling 
thing  it  would  be  to  be  shut  up  in  here  with  a  lunatic  ! 
Yet  it  is  so  damp  outside — and  I  might  meet  him  on  the 
platform,  besides.     I  wonder  where  that  remarkable  porter 
has  gone  to.  [Puts  her  Jiead  out — and  calls  timidly)  Porter! 
Porter  !    [^Vo  answerJ\     What  did  he  say  his  name  was  ? 
something   beginning   with    Mac,    I    know — Macpherson  ? 
{Calls     timidly)     Maclntyre  !     Macdoodle  !    Macfarlane  ! 
Mackintosh  !    Macnab  !    Macwheeble  !    Mackenzie  !    Mac- 
beth !    Mac — {with  an    inspiration)    Mac-gillicuddy  !   !    I 
believe  the  station  is  deserted.     Here  is  some  one  coming. 
[In    an    expectant   attitude.     Door  opens,    re-enter 
Graham   with   a   newspaper.     Miss    I'immersome 
retreats  into  corner. 

Graham.     Don't  be  alarmed — I'm  not  dangerous  ! 

Miss  Timmersome.     Are  you  sure  ? 

Graham.  Oh,  quite  !  Did  I  hear  you  calling  as  I  came 
up  ?  You  seemed  to  be  expecting  some  Scotch  friend — quite 
a  gathering  of  the  clans,  it  sounded  like  ! 

Miss  Timmersome.  Oh,  no — I  was  just  calling  for  a 
porter — and  happening  to  know  his  name — or  I  should 
rather  say  happening  to  have  forgotten  his  name 

Graham.  You  called  him  by  it.  I  see  !  Can't  I  do 
anything  to  help  you  ?  Do  you  like  your  porter  with  a  head  1 
as  that  kind  doesn't  seem  to  exist  at  Barningham  Station. 

Miss  Timmersome.  No — thank  you — I  didn't  want 
anything  particular — I  was  only  calling  him  because  I 
wanted  him  to — to — to  poke  the  fire  ! 

Graham..  What,  again  1  Why  you  know  I  can  do  that 
beautifully — here  goes  !  [Seizes  the  chair  and  hatters  the  fire 
with  it.^  There  now,  I  flatter  myself  that  a  professional 
poker  wouldn't  have  done  better  than  the  leg  of  that  chair, 
which  is  after  all  only  an  amateur,  and  pokes  for  its 
amusement.  Tliexe  is  always  a  want  of  finish  about  every- 
thing amateurs  do,  don't  you  think  so  ? 

k2 


132  In  a  First-Class  Waititig-Roo7n 

Miss  Timmersome  (stiffly).  I  think  that  if  the  chair  is 
spoilt,  the  railway  authorities  will  make  you  pay  for  it. 

Graham,  Perhaps  they  will.  (Considering  the  chairs 
with  his  head  on  one  side)  I  should  think  the  niaiket 
value  of  that  chair  was  about  ninepence  !  (Aside)  Now 
that  was  a  very  sensible  remark  of  hers — this  must  be  one 
of  her  lucid  intervals.  I'll  make  the  most  of  it.  (Aloud) 
Here  is  the  paper  I  brought  you  in — would  you  like  to  see 
if  there  is  any  news  ? 

Miss  Timmersome  (taking  it  timidly).     Thank  you. 

\Looks  through  it  eagerly  and  hastily — then  phts  it 
down  with  an  air  of  disappointment — gives  it 
back  to  Graham. 

Graham.     No  news  1 

Miss  Timmerso7ne.     None,  that  I  can  see. 

Graham  (takes  up  paper  and  looks  through  it).  What 
a  very  funny  way  women  have  of  reading  the  paper  !  I 
don't  know  what  on  earth  they  expect  to  find  in  it.  This 
seems  to  me  to  have  plenty  of  news.  China  declared  war  to 
France — half  London  blown  up  by  Fenians — three  railway 
bridges  collapsed.  I  wonder  what  her  notion  of  something 
interesting  is  !  Ah,  this  is  the  sort  of  thing,  I  suppose-  - 
{To  her) '  Marvellous  escape ' — are  you  interested  in  escapes  1 

Miss  Timmersome  (starts).  Oh,  dear — who  has  escaped 
now  1    It  is  quite  dreadful  the  number  of  escapes  there  are. 

Graham.  Dreadful  ?  (Aside)  What  an  extraordinary 
woman — it  must  be  homicidal  mania  she  has.  (Aloud)  1 
think  it  is  a  subject  of  rejoicing,  that  even  an  unknown 
fellow-creature  should  have  escaped  fixmi  drowning. 

Miss  Timmersome.     From  drowning  1 

Graham.  Yes.  An  unfortunate  youth  who  had  never 
been  in  the  sea  in  his  life  must  needs  go  to  Shrimptonville 
for  the  day,  and  bathe.  Queer  people  these  excursionists 
are  !  Those  who  can't  swim  always  bathe — those  who  have 
never  been  on  a  horse  invariably  ride.     Well,  this  youth 


In  a  First-Class  Waiting- Room  133 

naturally  enough  got  out  of  liis  depth,  and  equally  natu- 
rally there  was  no  appliance  of  any  kind  that  could  be 
of  the  least  use  to  him  except  the  life-boat,  which  was  about 
a  mile  and  a  quarter  off — but  another  excursionist,  who 
could  swim  and  had  therefore  gone  for  a  ride,  came  up, 
dashed  into  the  water  and  saved  him.  You  surely  don't 
grudge  him  that  escape  ! 

Miss  Timmersome  (fervently).  Oh,  no.  I  thought  you 
meant  an  escape  of  another  kind. 

Graham.     Of  what  kind  ? 

Miss  Timmersome  (hesitating).  Some — some — criminal, 
perhaps 

Graham  (meaningly).     Or  some  lunatic,  more  likely  ! 

Miss  Tim,mersome  (terrified.  Aside).  Can  he  be  mad 
too? 

Graham,  (aside).  It  is  evident  I  have  hit  the  right  nail 
on  the  head  ! 

Miss  Timmersome  (aside).  He  sees  I  know  his  secret — 
What  if  the  fear  of  discovery  render  him  desperate,  and  he 
turn  upon  me  ? 

Graham  (aside).  She  sees  I  have  guessed  her  secret — 
suppose  she  becomes  violent  and  springs  upon  me  !  (Aloud) 
Now,  madam,  you  will  forgive  me  if  I  say  that  I  penetrated 
the  cause  of  your  emotion,  when  I  spoke  of  an  escape 

Miss  Tim,mersome.     Unfortunate  man  !     You  did  !  !  • 

Graham.  I  did.  I  can  imagine  what  your  feelings 
must  be,  and  I  am  ready  to  offer  you  any  help  in  my 
power — but  I  must  say  I  do  not  consider  the  course  you 
have  adopted  to  be  a  wise  one 

Miss  Timmersome.     What  course  ? 

Graham.  The  one  which — which  has  brought  you  here 
to-day. 

Miss  Timmjersome.     I  haven't  an  idea  what  you  mean. 

Graham.  Then,  if  you  force  me  to  speak  plainly.  I 
mean  that  of  escaping  from  those  under  whose  charge  yea 


134  In  a  First-Clnss  Watting- Room 

were,  and  to  whose  care  it  will  be  my  duty  to  help  you  to 
return. 

Miss  Timmersoine  (aside).  Gracious  Heavens  !  there  is 
no  doubt  of  it — his  crime  has  turned  his  brain  !  Oh  if  some 
one  only  would  come  ! 

■  Enter  Porter  with  two  pieces  of  coal  and  the  fire-irons. 
Miss  Timmersome  rushes  to  him. 

Porter.  Bless  me,  mum,  gently  !  What's  the  matter  ? 
you've  made  me  drop  one  of  my  pieces  of  coal  -  and  I  only 
had  two  ! 

Miss  Timmersome  (wildly).  Never  mind  the  coal — the 
matter  is,  that  there  stands  the  escaped  convict,  Henry 
Brownlow  !  [Sinks  into  a  chair. 

Porter.     What,  sir  ! 

Graham.  The  meaning  of  it  is,  that  the  poor  lady  is 
evidently  of  unsound  mind,  and  has  escaped  from  some 
private  lunatic  asylum,  /  should  say. 

Miss  Timmersome.     What,  I  escaped  ?     You  escaped  ! ! 

Graham.     I  ? 

Miss  l\mmersome.     Yes.     You  ! 

Porter.  Then  where  do  you  think  that  this  gentleman  s 
escaped  from,  mum  ? 

Miss  Timmersome.  From  prison,  of  course.  He's  a 
convict  ! 

Porter  (to  Graham).  I  thought  she  was  rather  flighty 
and  excitable  when  I  first  brought  her  in  here.  But  why 
do  you  think  the  gentleman's  a  convict,  mum  ? 

Miss  Timmersome.  Because  here's  the  description  of 
him  in  the  newspaper,  accurate  in  every  point — and  he 
has  himself  admitted  he  has  just  been  imprisoned  in 
London  ! 

Graham.  Would  you  kindly  let  me  look  at  the  paper  ? 
[>S'Ae  jmts  it  down  near  him  and  starts  away.^  Oh,  don't 
be  afraid— T  am  not  in  a  murderous  fit  just  now  !  this  is 


In  a  First- Class  Waiting- Room  135 

not  one  of  my  working  days  !  \^Looks  at  paper,  hursts  out 
laughing.^  Why  the  date  of  this  paper  is  six  mouths  ago  ! 
I  hope  this  individual's  affairs  have  been  settled  before 
now  ! 

Miss  Timmersome.  Is  it  ?  ...  is  it  really  1  .  .  dear 
me — so  it  is  !  of  course,  it  was  a  paper  some  parcel  had 
been  wrapped  up  in  !  How  can  I  apologise  for  my 
absurdity  1 

Graham.  Then  do  you  mean  to  say  that  all  this  time 
you  have  been  thinking  /  was  the  person  referred  to  iu 
that  description  ? 

Miss  Timmersome.  Of  course  I  have,  and  I  don't 
wonder  that  you  should  have  been  thinking  I  was  out  of 
my  mind  ! 

Porter.     The  Cranbourne  train  is  signalled,  mum. 

Graham.  The  Cranbourne  train  !  Are  you  going  to 
Cranbourne  1  that  is  the  place  I  am  bound  for. 

Miss  Timmersome.  Oh  really  !  how  curious  !  I  live  at 
Cranbourne — it  is  my  home. 

Graham.  Indeed  !  Then  perhaps  you  know  something 
of  the  person  I  am  going  there  to  see  ?  a  relation  of  mine, 
the  only  relation  I  have  in  the  world — in  fact — I  haven't 
seen  her  since  I  was  six  years  old. 

Miss  Timmersome.  Since  you  were  six  years  old  !  The 
only  relation  you  have  in  the  world  !  May  I  ask  what 
your  name  is  1 

Graham.     My  name  is  Walter  Graham. 

Miss  Timmersom,e.  Walter  Graham  !  My  dear,  dear 
cousin  ! 

Graham,.     What— are  you— 

Miss  Timmersome.  Selina  Timmersome  !  Yes  !  I  am 
your  cousin  Selina  ! 

Graham  (shaking  hands  heartily).  My  dear  cousin, 
how  glad  I  am  to  meet  you  again  !  though  it  mutt  be  con- 
fessed that  our  acquaintance  has  not  been  renewed  under 


136  hi  a  First- Class  Waiting- Room 

very  happy  auspices,  since  you  took  me  for  an  escape  kI 
convict  ! 

Miss  Timmersome.     And  you  took  me  for  a  lunatic  ! 

Graham.  It  is  all  the  pleasanter  to  wake  up  to  the 
reality  of  what  delightful  people  we  both  are  I 

Miss  Timmersome.     Oh,  how  kind  of  you  to  say  so  ! 

Enter  Porter. 

Porter.  Cranbourne  train  due,  sir.  Why  what  has 
happened  to  the  leg  of  that  chair  ?  looks  as  if  it  had  been 
burnt,  don't  it  1 

Graham,.  Come,  my  man,  make  liaste  or  we  shall 
miss  the  train — you  can  come  and  look  over  the  furniture 
when  we  are  gone.  (To  Miss  T.)  If  you  will  allow  me, 
then,  I  will  escort  you  to  Cranbourne. 

Miss  Timmersome.  That  will  be  delightful.  (Aside) 
Oh,  how  safe  that  makes  me  feel  ! 

Graham,.  And  I  hope  you  will  meet  with  no  more 
escaped  criminals  on  the  way  ! 

Miss  Timmersomie.  I  don't  wonder  at  your  laughing 
at  me  !  but  the  fact  is,  I  am  so  nervous  about  travelling 
alone,  that  I  am  ready  to  fancy  myself  in  danger  every  - 
where — even  in  a  First-Class  Waiting- Room  ! 

^Exeunt,  preceded  by  Porter  loith  luggage. 

Curtain. 


137 


A    JOINT    HOUSEHOLD 

COMEDIETTA    I.V  OXE  ACT. 

CHARACTEHS. 

Mes.  Stubbs.  Mrs.  Tallett. 

Scene. — A  gaudily  furnished  drawing-room  in  a  lodging- 
house  at  Scarborough.     Two  unopened  letters  on  table. 

Enter  Mrs.  Stubbs,  in  travelling  costume,  bag  in  hand — ■ 
s/ie  puts  down  hag  and  hangs  coloured  tuooUen  shawl 
over  back  of  chair. 

Mrs.  S.  (looking  round).  And  so  this  is  the  drawing- 
room  !  Well,  I  don't  think  much  of  it.  I  might  have 
known  this  would  be  the  kind  of  place  my  husband  would 
choose.  It  is  extraordinary  how  little  sense  husbands 
have  !  For  my  part,  I  think  the  whole  arrangement  a  mis- 
take. It  is  absurd,  that  because  my  husband  and  Mr. 
Tallett  are  together  in  a  bank  in  Leeds,  Mis.  Tallett  and  I 
should  take  a  house  at  Scarborough  together  for  six  weeks, 
that  those  two  men  may  run  down  from  Saturday  to  Monday. 
However,  we  shall  see  how  it  answers.  If  Mrs.  Tallett  is 
pleasant  to  live  with,  and  lets  me  have  my  own  way  in  the 
house,  I  dare  say  we  shall  get  on  well  enough.  I  am  glad 
that  I  changed  my  plans,  and  came  on  by  the  afternoon  train 
instead  of  the  evening  one,  as  I  shall  have  time  to  look 
round  me  and  settle  things  a  little  before  she  comes. 
I  Looks  round.^    That's  not  a  bad  armchair — I  can  have  that 


138  A  Joint  Household 

of  an  evening,  and  my  husband  the  rocking-chair.  Then 
Mr.  and  Mrs.  Tallett  can  sit  on  the  sofa.  Ah,  tlie  piano  is 
open,  I  see  !  [^Locks  it  and  takes  key.^  I  can't  be  distracted 
by  Mrs.  Tallett's  strumming  all  day,  as  I  have  no  doubt  she 
would  like  to  do.  I  shall  tell  her  plainly  from  the  first 
what  my  likes  and  dislikes  are,  then  we  shall  understand 
one  another.  What  a  glare  !  [Pulls  down  blind  as  she 
passes.^  Ah,  there  is  a  letter  from  dear  George,  and  one  for 
Mrs.  Tallett  from  her  husband,  I  suppose.  [Reads^  '  Dear 
Maria,  I  hope  this  will  find  you  comfor-tably  settled  in  your 
new  quarters.  I  fancy  you  will  find  Mrs.  Tallett  easy 
enough  to  get  on  with.  The  landlady  said  something  about 
the  kitchen  range  being  wrong — you  had  better  ask  about 
it.  I  shall  be  down  on  Saturday.  Your  affectionate 
husband,  Georoe  Stubrs.'  Dear  fellow  !  I  do  hope  he  will 
be  comfortable  here.  Now  I  must  go  and  see  the  bedrooms, 
as  I  should  like  to  take  the  front  one  for  myself.  I  can't 
sleep  in  a  room  that  doesn't  face  south.  If  Mrs.  Tallett  is 
reasonable,  she  won't  mind  the  back  one.  [Exit  Mrs.  S. 

After  a  moment,  enter  Mrs.  Tallett  in  travelling  costume. 

Mrs.  T.  And  so  this  is  the  drawing-room  !  Well,  it 
isn't  bad,  but  I  would  have  chosen  a  better  one,  if  it  had 
been  left  to  me.  However,  I  dare  say  it  will  do  well 
enough.  On  principle,  I  don't  like  sharing  houses  with 
other  people — but  my  husband  and  Mr.  Stubbs  were  both 
so  bent  on  the  plan,  that  there  was  nothing  to  do  but  for 
their  unfortunate  wives  to  submit.  [Sm,iling?^  I  wonder 
what  Mr.  Stubbs  is  like  now  %  I  haven't  seen  him  since — 
let  me  see — ten  years  ago,  when  he  did  me  the  honour  of 
proposing  to  me,  at  a  tea  picnic  at  Maidenhead.  Oh,  what 
quantities  of  tea  he  drank  !  and  how  glad  I  am  I  didn't 
accept  him  !  I  do  dislike  short,  fat  men  with  red  hair. 
How  different  from  my  darling  Edwin  !  Ah,  there  is  a 
letter  from  him  !    [Reads^    '  Darling  Popsey  ' — so  like  him, 


A  Joint  Household  1 39 

that  is  !  *  I  hope  you  are  getting  on  all  right.  Mrs.  Stubbs 
is  a  rather  alarming,  managing  person,  I  believe,  but  if  you 
give  her  head,  you  will  get  on  capitally.  There's  a  darling 
dicky-bird  !  Her  own  Doodles.  P.S.  Stubbs  asks  me  to 
enclose  this  note  to  you — it's  about  the  kitchen  range,  I 
believe.'  [Opens  it.  |  '  Dear  Mrs.  Tallett,  I  hope  you  will 
find  the  house  I  have  chosen  to  your  liking.  I  have  only 
just  discovered  that  you  are  the  Miss  Blanche  Mervyn  I 
once  knew.  Perhaps  for  the  present  it  might  be  well  to 
sink  the  past,  until  I  have  an  opportunity  of  explaining  to 
Mrs.  Stubbs  that  I  have  already  had  the  pleasure  of 
making  your  acquaintance.  Yours  truly,  George  Stubbs.' 
Ha,  ha,  poor  terrified  soul  !  Well,  I  am  quite  ready  to  sink 
the  past,  I  am  sure — I  wouldn't  resuscitate  it  for  the  world  ! 
\Looks  round.^  And  now  I  must  look  round  me  a  little. 
Ah,  that  isn't  a  bad  chair — that  will  do  for  Edwin,  and 
I  can  have  the  rocking-chair,  and  the  Stubbses  will  be  quite 
comfortable  on  the  sofa.  A  piano,  too,  how  nice  !  Why, 
it  is  locked.  I  must  get  hold  of  the  key,  as  I  mean  to 
practise  vigorously  while  I  am  here.  It  will  be  a  capital 
opportunity.  [Pulls  up  blind ?^  What  a  nice  sunny  room  ! 
It  is  certainly  very  amusing,  feeling  one  has  come  away  for 
a  holiday,  and  may  live  anyhow.  I  wonder  what  the  bed- 
rooms are  like  1  I  had  better  go  and  see.  I  do  hope  there 
is  a  front  one  I  can  have,  as  I  like  a  cheerful  look-out.  I 
am  glad  I  came  early,  so  as  to  be  settled  here  before  Mrs. 
Stubbs  comes. 

[As  she  goes  towards  door,  Mrs.  Stubbs  comes  in,  in 
indoor  costume. 

Mrs.  T.     Oh,  are  you  the  landlady  ? 

Mrs.  S.  (indignantly).     The  landlady  !    N^o  !    Are  you  ? 

Mrs.  T.     Certainly  not.     I  am  one  of  the  lodgers,  and 
this  is  my  drawing-room. 

Mrs.  S.      Your  drawing-room  !  and  may    I  ask    what 
your  name  is  1 


140  A  Joint  Household 

Mrs.  T.     Mrs.  Tallett. 

Mrs.  S.  (stiffly).  Oh,  indeed  !  I  am  glad  to  see  you, 
Mrs.  Tallett,  and  to  welcome  you  to  my  house.  I  am  Mrs. 
Stubbs. 

Afrs.  T.  Mrs.  Stubbs  !  I  beg  your  pardon.  I  thought 
you  were  not  coming  till  this  evening. 

Mrs.  S.  No  more  I  was,  but  I  changed  my  plans.  I 
thought  you  were  not  coming  till  this  evening. 

Mrs.  T.     I  changed  mine,  too. 

Mrs.  S.     I  see.  [^1  pause. 

Mrs.  T.  I  was  just  going  to  see  what  the  bedrooms 
were  like. 

Mrs.  S.  Not  bad.  I  have  chosen  mine,  the  one  over 
this. 

Mrs.  T.     Over  this  %    The  one  on  the  front  % 

Mrs.  S.  (firmly).     On  the  front. 

Mrs.  T.  (aside).     Upon  my  word  ! 

Mrs.  S.  There  is  a  nice  room  at  the  back  that  I  thought 
you  would  like,  as  it  is  so  quiet. 

Mrs.  T.  Thank  you.  I  should  have  liked  to  see  the 
rooms  before  making  a  final  decision. 

Mrs.  S.  Well,  you  see,  now  I  have  put  my  things  into 
the  front  room — my  bonnet  is  in  the  cupboard  and  my  cloak 
hanging  up. 

Mrs.  T.  Still,  I  suppose,  if  necessary,  the  bonnet  and 
cloak  could  be  moved.  They  are  not  glued  to  the  shelves, 
I  imagine. 

Mrs.  S.  (aside).  Rude  woman  !  (Aloud)  No,  they  are 
not  glued,  but  it  is  hardly  worth  while  to  move  them  again, 
especially  as  there  will  be  a  good  deal  to  do  before  we  are 
settled. 

Mrs.  T.  (looking  round).  Yes,  and  we  shall  have  to 
begin  by  turning  a  good  many  unlovely  things  out  of  this 
room,  I  think. 

Mrs.  S.     Do  you  think  so  1    This  room  struck  me  as 


//  Joijit  HouseJiold  141 

being  furnished  with  very  good  taste.  I  don't  see  that  we 
need  remove  anything. 

Mrs.  T.  (taking  up  Mrs.  S.'s  shawl).  Surely  you 
wouldn't  keep  this  thing  here  !  do  let  us  put  it  away  some- 
where. 

Mrs.  S.  (taking  it,  with  dignity).  It  shall  be  put  in 
the  cupboard  in  the  front  room,  Mrs.  Tallett — that  is  my 
shawl. 

Jlrs.  T.  (confused).  I  heg  your  pardon  !  I  thought 
it  was  one  of  the  things  that  people  hang  over  the  back  of 
chairs. 

Mrs.  S.  So  it  is  !  but  I  will  take  care  that  it  doesn't 
happen  again. 

Mrs.  T.  (aside).  That  was  unfortunate  !  (Aloud)  What 
a  bright,  sunny  room  this  is  ! 

Mrs.  S.  Yes,  too  sunny,  in  fact.  There  is  quite  a 
glare. 

Mrs.  T.     Do  you  think  so  ? 

Mrs.  S.  Yes,  I  was  just  thinking  I  would  put  up 
some  nice  red  curtains  I  have,  as  my  husband,  who  will 
like  that  rocking-chair  in  the  window,  cannot  endure  a 
glare. 

Mrs.  T.  Curtains  !  What  a  pity  !  A  room  cannot  be 
too  sunny  for  me.  I  was  thinking  how  I  should  enjoy 
sitting  on  that  chair  with  baby,  and  looking  out  at  the  sun 
shining  on  the  water. 

Mrs.  S.  Then  do  you  mean  to  use  this  room  as  a  sitting- 
room  for  the  children  1 

Mrs.  T.  (apologetically).  Well,  you  see,  there  are  only 
two  of  them,  and  they  are  really  very  little  trouble — Jacky 
is  only  two,  and  the  baby  not  quite  a  year. 

Mrs.  S.  Do  you  consider  those  are  ages  at  which 
children  give  no  trouble  ? 

Mrs.  T.  I  don't  say  that  exactly.  But  still,  it  isn't 
like  having  two  extra  grown-up  people  in  the  room. 


142  A  Joint  Household 

Mrs.  S.  I  quite  agree  with  you,  it  is  not  like  having 
grown-up  people  in  the  room.  I  should  have  thought  it 
would  have  been  much  better  for  the  cliildreu  to  be  in  the 
little  room  at  the  back,  under  the  stairs. 

Mrs.  T.  Oh,  I  shouldn't  like  that  for  them  at  all. 
Besides,  I  want  baby  to  be  in  the  same  room  as  the  piano — 
I  am  quite  sure  she  is  going  to  be  musical. 

Mrs.  S.  (bored).     Indeed  1     How  does  she  show  it  1 

Mrs.  T.  Whenever  I  say,  '  Baby,  w here's  the  piano  ? ' 
she  begins  drumming  with  both  lists  on  her  nurse's  face. 

Mrs.  S.  Then  can't  she  do  that  in  a  room  without  a 
piano  ? 

Mrs.  T.  She  wouldn't  enjoy  it  nearly  so  much — but  we 
will  see  when  Edwin  comes.  By  the  way,  I  see  the  piano 
is  locked.     Have  you  asked  for  the  key  ? 

Mrs.  S.     No,  I  have  not  asked  for  it. 

3fr8.  T.  I  must  try  to  get  hold  of  it  presently.  It 
will  make  all  the  difference  to  me  to  have  the  piano  going 
constantly. 

Mrs.  S.  (aside).  It  would  make  a  greater  difference  to 
me  to  have  it  gone  altogether. 

Mrs.  T.  Dear  me,  I  am  getting  very  hungry  !  I  wonder 
if  there  is  anything  in  the  house  to  eat  ? 

Mrs.  S.  I  was  just  going  to  draw  up  a  list  of  the  things 
we  should  need. 

Mrs.  T.  It  will  be  rather  amusing  living  from  hand  to 
mouth  for  a  little — I  feel  quite  as  if  we  were  come  out  for 
a  picnic  ! 

Mrs.  S.     In  what  respect  1 

Mrs.  T.  Oh,  I  mean  not  knowing  what  one  is  going  to 
eat,  and  so  on. 

Mrs.  S.  I  assure  you  that  I  always  know  very  well 
indeed  what  I  am  going  to  eat. 

Mrs.  T.     I  mean,  feeling  that  it  doesn't  matter. 

Mrs.  S.     It  always  matters.   [Sits  at  table.]  I  ^^■ill  make 


A  Joint  Household  143 

a  list  of  the  joints  we  may  require  during  the  next  week. 
\^t*ulls  letter  out  of  her  pocket  and  writes  on  hac1c\  A  leg  of 
mutton,  a  loin  of  lamb 

Mrs.  T.     Edwin  likes  a  shoulder. 

Mrs.  S.  A  most  extravagant,  wasteful  joint.  I  never 
order  a  shoulder.     A  neck,  to  cut  into  cutlets 

Mrs.  T.  The  cutlets  off  the  neck  are  so  scraggy.  Edwin 
doesn't  like  them  scraggy. 

Mrs.  S.  Not  if  they  are  properly  cooked,  which  mine 
always  are. 

Mrs.  T.  I  shouldn't  have  thought  we  needed  all  these 
things,  while  we  two  women  are  alone  here.  I  suppose  we 
shall  not  dine  late,  shall  we,  till  our  husbands  come  % 

Mrs.  S.     Not  dine  late  1     Why  not  ? 

3frs.  T.     It  is  so  much  nicer  to  have  supper. 

Mrs.  S.  I  don't  agree  with  you  at  all.  That  seems  to 
me  a  most  slovenly  habit.  [  Walks  to  window.     Pause. 

Mrs.  T.  How  are  we  going  to  arrange  about  the  house- 
keeping 1 

Mrs.  S.     What  about  it  ? 

Mrs.  T.     I  mean,  who  is  going  to  undertake  it  ? 

Mrs.  S.     I  am,  I  suppose. 

Mrs.  T.     Altogether  ? 

Mrs.  S.  I  am  very  particular  about  housekeeping.  I 
don't  think  I  could  endure  to  live  with  anyone  who  did  not 
conform  to  my  ideas  on  the  subject. 

Mrs.  T.  But  I  think  I  ought  to  have  a  little  say  on  the 
subject  sometimes. 

Mrs.  S.  Oh  yes,  of  course  you  can  have  a  say  in  the 
matter. 

Mrs.  T.  (aside).  Not  much  good  having  a  say  if  I 
mayn't  have  a  do  as  Avell  I 

Mrs.  S.  We  can  discuss  the  various  points  as  we  go 
on.  Now,  about  breakfast.  You  put  down  your  items  on 
your  list,  and  I  on  mine. 


144  -^  Joint  Household 

S^rs.  T.  pulls  Mr.  S.'s  letter  out  of  leer  pocket,  smiling 
aside  as  she  does  so,  tears  off  the  half-sheet  on  which 
the  F.S.  is  written  and  begins  making  list  on  it. 
Mrs.  S.  and  Mrs.  T.  with  lists  at  different  sides  of 
table. 

Mrs.  T.  I  was  thinking  that  perhaps  I  might  pour  out 
the  tea  at  breakfast,  and  you  might  carve  at  luncheon. 

Mrs.  S.  Yes,  I  think  I  had  better  carve  at  luncheon, 
certainly,  but  I  am  not  sure  about  your  plan  for  breakfast 
— so  few  people  know  how  to  manage  a  teapot. 

Mrs.  T.  Oh,  I  think  I  can  manage  a  teapot,  if  it  is  not 
too  headstrong  !  what  is  the  difficulty  ? 

Mrs.  S.  The  way  you  speak  of  it  shows  you  don't 
realise  the  importance  of  it.  George  is  most  particular 
about  his  tea. 

Mrs.  T.  (smiling,  aside).  Yes  indeed  !  (Aloud)  I 
know  what  I  can  look  after  for  breakfast  !  the  toast  ! 
Edwin  always  says  no  one  can  make  such  good  toast  as 
I  do. 

Mrs.  S.     Is  Mr.  Tallett  very  particular  1 

Mrs.  T.  I  really  don't  know — he  generally  likes  what 
I  give  him. 

Mrs.  S.     George  is  extremely  particular. 

Mrs.  T.  (aside).     Oh,  what  an  escape  I  had 

Mrs.  S.     Especially  about  his  bacon  in  the  morning. 

Mrs.  T.  (asWe).     Little  wretch  ! 

Mrs.  S.     What  kind  of  bacon  do  you  get  ? 

Mrs.  T.     Oh,  I  don't  know.     Fat,  streaky  bacon. 

Mrs.  S.  Is  it  Cumberland,  Wiltshire,  smoked,  or 
American  ? 

Mrs.  T,     I  really  don't  know. 

Mrs.  H.  (after  a  moment).  Then  perhaps  you  had  better 
let  me  see  about  the  bacon. 

Mrs.  T.     Perhaps  I  had.  [Mrs.  S.  puts  it  down. 

Mrs.  S.     Now,  about  the  marmalade. 


A  Joint  Ho  use  ho  la  145 

Mrs.  T.  Oh,  that  I  can  choose,  I'm  sure  !  I'm  devot.^1 
to  marmalade. 

Mrs.  S.     What  is  your  recipe  ? 

Mrs:  T.     My  what  1 

Mrs.  S.     Your  recipe  ! 

Mrs.  T.     My  recipe  for  what  1 

Mrs.  S.  (aside).  The  woman  is  an  idiot,  I  do  believe  ! 
(Aloud)  For  making  marmalade,  of  course. 

Mrs.  T.     Oh  !     I  haven't  any,  I  buy  it. 

Mrs.  S.  You  buy  it  !  Gracious  heavens  !  I  should 
never  think  of  eating  marmalade  bought  in  shops  ! 

Mrs.  T.     Where  should  one  buy  it,  if  not  in  shops  ? 

Mrs.  S.  One  should  never  buy  marmalade !  one  should 
always,  always  make  it  at  home.  My  mother  had  a  better 
recipe  than  anyone  else  for  making  it,  and  I  do  it  in  the 
same  way. 

Mrs.  T.     My  mother  used  to  make  it  too,  T  remember. 

Mrs.  a.  Did  she  ?  But  I  don't  suppose  her  recipe  was 
as  good  as  mine.  My  mother  never  put  any  water  into  her 
marmalade.  Did  your  mother  put  any  into  hers  %  If  she 
did,  you  may  be  sure  it  spoilt  before  the  year  was  out. 

Mrs.  T.  I  really  don't  know  whether  she  did  or  not. 
Her  marmalade  never  had  a  chance  of  spoiling,  for  it  was 
so  good  it  was  eaten  long  before  the  year  was  over. 

Mrs.  S.  Oh,  then  she  did  not  make  enough.  That  is 
what  so  often  happens  to  unskilful  housekeepers. 

Afrs.  T.  My  mother  was  an  excellent  housekeeper.  I 
only  wish  I  had  benefited  more  by  her  instructions  ! 

Mrs.  S.  It  would  have  been  better,  certainly,  especially 
if  you  are  keeping  house  with  some  one  else. 

Mrs.  T.  (aside).  I  wonder  why  I  ever  said  I  would 
do  it  ! 

Mrs.  S.  Then  shall  I  see  about  the  marmalade  ?  I  had 
better,  I  think.  [Puts  it,  doirn. 

Mrs.  T.     Yes,   please,   if  you  will.     And  after  all,   if 

L 


146  A  Joint  Household 

there  is  good  butter,  I  don't  care  so  much  about  the  mar- 
malade. 

Mrs.  S.  Ah,  yes,  about  the  butter,  this  is  very  impor- 
tant. I  allow  half  a  pound  per  head  at  home,  not  a  scrap 
more.  Let  me  see,  how  many  shall  we  be  1  Yourself,  and 
myself,  and  George 

Mrs.  T.     And  dear  Edwin 

Mrs.  S.     Four — that  makes  two  pounds. 

3frs.  T.  Then  there  is  Nurse — she  seems  to  eat  a  great 
deal  of  butter.  I  should  almost  think  she  might  want 
more  than  half  a  pound. 

Mrs.  S.  I  hope  you  don't  pamper  your  nurse,  Mrs. 
Tallett — it's  a  great  mistake. 

Mrs.  T.  Oh,  I  dare  say  she  is  a  little  indulged,  of 
course.  She  is  such  a  nice  woman  !  She  came  when  Jacky 
was  born,  two  years  ago,  and  she  has  been  the  greatest 
treasure  ever  since. 

Mrs.  S.  I  don't  see  why,  because  a  woman  has  been 
with  you  two  years,  she  should  eat  more  butter  than  anyone 
else  in  the  house. 

Mrs.  T.     It  is  only  the  idea,  of  course  .  .  . 

Mrs.  S.  It's  an  idea  I  wouldn't  let  her  put  into  practice, 
if  I  were  you. 

Mrs.  T.  Well,  we  will  see  alx)ut  it  when  Edwin 
comes. 

Mrs.  S.  Very  well.  Then  perhaps  I  had  better  see 
about  the  butter.  [She  puis  it  dozen, 

Mrs.  T.  (aside).  It  doesn't  seem  to  me  as  if  I  were 
going  to  see  about  anything  ! 

Mrs.  S.  And  now  we  come  to  something  very  im- 
portant— the  hours  of  our  meals.  What  time  shall  we 
breakfast  ? 

Mrs.  T.     Oh,  not  too  early,  pray  ! 

Mrs.  S.  No,  I  think,  as  we  are  in  holidays,  we  may 
quite  well  say  a  quarter-past  eight. 


A  Joint  Household  147 

Mrs.  T.  A  quarter-past  eight  I  I  was  going  to  say  a 
quarter- past  nine  ! 

Mrs.  S.  I  should  think  it  extx'emely  wrong  to  break- 
fast at  a  quarter-past  nine. 

Mrs.T.     Wrong?     Why? 

Mrs.  S.  Because  it  is  lazy  and  self-indulgent.  I'm 
sure  George  wouldn't  think  of  it  for  a  moment. 

Mrs.  T.  And  I'm  sure  Edwin  will  never  come  down 
earlier. 

Mrs.  S.  I  must  say,  I  think  George's  tastes  should  be 
deferred  to. 

Mrs.  T.     And  I  think  Edwin's  should  be  consulted. 

Mrs.  S.     Well,  we'll  ask  them  when  they  come. 

Mrs.  T.     Very  well. 

Mrs.  iS.  And  in  the  meantime  I  will  order  it  at  a 
quarter-past  eiglit. 

3frs.  T.     Then  where  are  the  children  to  breakfast  % 

Mrs.  S.  Dear  me,  I  forgot  about  the  children!  Really, 
in  many  ways,  it  will  be  extremely  inconvenient  having  the 
children  here. 

Mrs.  T.  Inconvenient !  Why,  that  was  the  very  reason 
Edwin  and  I  were  so  anxious  to  come  ! 

Mrs.  S.  But  I  think  that  you  must  see  that  it  is  quite 
impossible  that  the  whole  house  should  turn  upon  them  as 
you  seem  to  intend. 

Mrs.  T.  I  don't  want  the  whole  house  to  turn  upon 
them,  but  I  do  think  they  should  be  of  some  importance. 

Mrs.  S.  They  are  of  some  importance,  of  course,  but 
one  shouldn't  exaggerate  it. 

Mrs.  T.  Exaggerated  !  !  as  if  one  could  exaggerate 
their  importance  !  bless  their  darling  hearts  !  Edwin  will 
never  be  satisfied  unless  they  are  in  the  room  with  him. 

Mrs.  S.  I  am  quite  sure  George  will  be  disturbed  if 
they  are  constantly  in  his  way. 

l2 


148  A  Joint  Househola 

Mrs.  T.  In  that  case,  I  really  think  we  had  better 
make  some  other  arrangement. 

Mrs.  S.  My  dear  Mrs.  Tallett,  you  should  exercise  a 
little  more  self-control.  In  an  arrangement  of  this  kind 
you  must  learn  to  put  your  own  fancies  aside  a  little. 

Mrs.  T.  (aside).  Yes,  so  I  think  !  (Aloud)  Well,  we 
will  see  when  Edwin  comes. 

Mrs.  S.     Yes. 

Mrs.  T.  Then  '  babies,'  I  suppose,  had  better  go  on  my 
list  ?     (Aside)  The  first  thing  I've  had  on  it  !  ! 

Mrs.  S.  (writing).  Now  about  lamps  — I  am  very  par- 
ticular about  lamps.  I  dare  say  you  agree  with  me  in  dis- 
liking gas  in  a  sitting-room  1 

Mrs.  T.  No,  I  don't  dislike  it.  I  always  think  it  looks 
cheerful. 

Mrs.  S.  George  and  I  both  dislike  it  particularly.  In 
fact,  we  can  only  read  at  night,  each  with  our  own  lamp  in 
one  particular  place. 

Mrs.  T.     Really  !     How  tiresome  that  must  be  ! 

Mrs.  S.  And  George  cannot  see  at  all  at  night  without 
spectacles. 

Mrs.  T.     Spectacles  !     Does  he  wear  spectacles  1 

Mrs.  S.     Always.     They  are  quite  becoming  to  him. 

Mrs.  T.  (aside).  Ugh  !  (Aloud)  I  could  see  quite  well 
sitting  on  that  chair,  for  instance  \Pointing  to  armc}iair\ 
or  that  one  [Pohitiny  to  rocking-chair^ — if  the  gas  were 
lighted. 

Mrs.  S.  I  thought  that  /  would  sit  on  this  chair  with 
a  light  behind  me,  and  George  on  that  one,  with  another — 
then  you  and  Mr.  Tallett  could  have  been  on  the  sofa 
and  used  the  gas,  if  there  were  no  other  lamps  to  be  had. 

Mrs.  T.  I  am  not  sure  that  Edwin  would  like  that 
arrangement. 

M18.  S.     I  feel  sure  George  would. 

Mrs.  T.     We  will  see  when  they  come. 


A  Joint  Household  149 

Mrs.  S.     Then  perhaps  I  had  better  see  about  the  lamps. 

\^Futs  it  down. 

Mrs.  T.  In  the  meantime,  hadn't  we  better  have  some, 
tea? 

Mrs.  S.  (looking  at  watch).  It  is  only  a  quarter-past 
four.     I  thought  five  should  be  our  tea-hour. 

Mrs.  T.  (aside).     I  wish  my  appetite  were  not  fast  ! 

Mrs.  S.  It  is  so  much  better  to  settle  the  hours  of  our 
meals  at  first,  and  to  keep  to  them.  Breakfast,  8.15  : 
luncheon,  l.lo. 

Mrs.  T.     I  should  have  preferred  1.30. 

Mrs.  S.     Why  1 

Mrs.  T.  Because  then  Nurse  can  have  her  dinner  first, 
while  I  keep  baby. 

Mrs.  S.  My  dear  Mrs.  Tallett,  you  must  forgive  me  if 
I  say  that  we  really  cannot  arrange  our  hours  to  suit  your 
nurse.  As  a  matter  of  principle,  I  consider  that  we  ought 
to  lunch  at  1.15. 

Mrs.  T.     We  will  see  when  Edwin  comes. 

Mrs.  S.     Tea  at  five. 

Mrs.  T.     Oh,  I  am  so  hungry  ! 

Mrs.  S.     Dinner  at  7.30. 

Mrs.  T.  I  do  think  it  would  be  so  much  nicer  to  have 
supper  at  eight,  on  these  lovely  summer  evenings  !  Then  we 
can  remain  out  of  doors  till  the  last  moment. 

Mrs.  S.     George  likes  having  his  evening  meal  at  7.30. 

Mrs.  T.     I  am  sure  Edwin  would  prefer  his  at  eight. 

Mrs.  S.  It  would  be  very  bad  for  George  to  wait  so 
long,  as  he  never  has  any  five  o'clock  tea. 

Mrs.  T.  Doesn't  he  1  He  must  have  altered  very  much 
since  I  saw  him,  then  ! 

Mrs.  S.     W^hat  did  you  say  1     Since  you  saw  him  ! 

Mrs.  T.  (aside).  How  stupid  of  me  !  (Aloud)  The  last 
time  I  saw  Mr.  Stubbs,  lie  did  have  some  five  o'clock  tea. 

Mrs.  S.     And  may  I  ask  when  this  was  ? 


150  A  Joint  Household 

Mrs.  T.  Ob,  about  ten  years  ago.  It  was  at  a  tea 
picnic  at  Maidenhead. 

Mrs.  S.  Oh,  indeed !  this  is  the  first  time  I  have  heard 
of  this  !     I  didn't  know  you  had  met  before. 

Mrs.  T.     Oh,  yes,  several  times. 

Mrs.  S.  I  wonder  if  it  was  not  some  one  else  of  the 
same  name  as  my  husband  !  It  is  so  very  unlike  him  to 
have  said  nothing  about  it.  \_Mrs.  T.  smiles  aside.^  What 
was  he  like  1 

Mrs.  T.     Well,  he  was — a — a — not  very  tall 

Mrs.  S.  Quite  so — not  tall,  but  a  symmetrically  formed 
man.     Fair  1 

Mrs.  T.     Yes,  fair,  with 

Mrs.  S.     Auburn  hair  % 

Mrs.  T.     Ye — es,  auburn  hair. 

Mrs.  S.  Then  it  certainly  was  my  husband.  It  is 
very  odd  that  he  should  not  have  told  me  he  already  knew 
you,  as  I  make  a  great  point  of  his  telling  me  everything. 

Mrs.  T.     Perhaps  he  forgot  ! 

Mrs.  S.  No,  George  never  forgets  anything.  No  more 
do  I. 

Mrs.  T.  (aside).     What  dreadful  people  to  live  with  ! 

Mrs.  S.  And  that  reminds  me — I  don't  think  we  have 
forgotten  any  of  the  things  I  meant  to  put  down  in  the  lists, 
but  we  might  just  run  through  them  and  see.  By  the  way, 
we  must  ask  about  the  kitchen  range — have  you  heard 
anything  about  it  ? 

Mrs.  T.  (smiling  aside).  I  have  heard  it  mentioned, 
that  was  all. 

Mrs.  S.  Then  if  you  have  your  list,  we  will  just  tick 
off  the  things. 

Mrs.  T.     The  only  thing  down  on  my  list  is  '  babies.' 

Mrs.  S.  Oh,  really — I  thought  we  had  divided  more 
equally  than  that — but,  perhaps,  as  I  have  these  things  down- 
on  my   paper  I  may  as  well  see  to  them.      (Reads)   Tea, 


A  Joint  Household  151 

marmalade,  luncheon,  bacon,  curtains,  butter,  lamps,  dinner, 
kitchen  range --Oh,  and  I  must  write  the  list  of  joints  from 
the  butcher.  I  have  no  more  room.  I  will  just  take  your 
paper,  as  you  don't  want  it. 

[Takes  letter  lying  in  front  of  Mrs.  T. 

Mrs.  T.  (in  agonies).  Only,  1  might  want  to  put  down 
something  more [Stretching  out  her  hand  for  if. 

Mrs.  S.  (writing).  If  you  do,  I  have  some  paper  in  my 
bag  I  can  give  you — and  I  will  finish  my  list  on  this  one, 
•AS  I  have  begun. 

Mrs.  T.  (nervously).  May  I  look  at  it  a  minute,  just 
to  see  what  you  have  down  ? 

Mrs.  S.     One  moment. 

[Turns  over  paper  to  go  on  icriting. 

Mrs.  T.  (aside).     Now  then  ! ! 

Mrs.  S.  (starts).  Why — what  is  this  writing  ?  It  looks 
like  my  husband's  ! 

Mrs.  T.  (embarrassed).     Like  your  husband's  ? 

Mrs.  S.  (springing  up).  It  is  ray  husband's  !  'Yours 
truly,  George  Stubbs.'  Mrs.  Tallett  !  I  ha^e  involuntarily 
read  what  is  written  on  that  paper — and  even  now  I  can 
hardly  believe  it  ! 

Mrs.  T.  (quietly).  There  is  nothing  to  believe  or  to 
disbelieve  in  it.  It  is  quite  simple.  It  is  a  note  from 
your  husband. 

Mrs.  S.     Quite  simple  !  ! 

Mrs.  T.  My  dear  Mrs.  Stubbs,  I  can  explain  quite 
easily 

Mrs.  S.  Explain  !  It  requires  explanation,  indeed  ! 
When  my  husband  writes  to  you  to  say  that  as  his  wife 
knows  nothing  of  his  having  met  you,  you  had  better  sink 
the  past  ]  Sink  the  past  1  Mrs.  Tallett,  what  does  this 
mean — what  does  it  imply  ? 

Mrs.  T.  (aside).  Horrid  little  man,  to  get  me  into  this 
scrape  !     (Aloud)  It  simply  means  that,  as  I  have  ulreiuly 


152  A  Joint  Household 

told  you,  I  have  met  your  husband  before — I  see  nothing 
so  very  terrible  in  it. 

Mrs.  S.  Then  may  I  ask  why  he  writes  to  you  to  say 
that  I  am  to  be  kept  in  ignorance  of  the  fact  ? 

Mrs.  T.  Well  ....  I  suppose  because  he  thought  you 
would  be  vexed,  and  it  appears  that  he  was  right  ! 

Mrs.  S.  What — you  can  laugh  at  it  !  Oh,  you  wicked, 
wicked  woman  !  to  come  between  me  and  my  husband, 
after  seven  happy  years  of  married  life  ! 

Mrs.  T.  Come  between  you  and  your  husband  ?  I 
assure  you  I  have  done  nothing  of  the  kind. 

Mrs.  S.  Nothing  of  the  kind  !  When  he  writes  to 
you  secretly,  asking  you  not  to  tell  me  of  your  former 
relation  to  one  another  !     Oh,  you  abandoned  creature  ! 

Mrs.  T.  Abandoned  ! — how  dare  you  say  so  %  Because 
I  refused  him  ? 

Mrs.  S.     Refused  him  ! 

Mrs.  T.  Refused  him  !  I  should  think  so  I  you  don't 
suppose  I  would  have  accepted  him  % 

Mrs.  8.  What,  my  husband  proposed  to  you—  asked 
you  to  marry  him  !     Oh,  how  I  have  been  deceived  ! 

Mrs.  T.     Deceived  ! 

I  thought  I  was  the  only  woman  he  had  ever 


Mrs. 

K 

loA 

:ed  ! 

Mrs. 

T. 

Mrs. 

S. 

What  difference  does  it  make  now  ? 
What  difference  ?     Oh,  you  woman  with  no 
feeling,  no  principle,  no  sense  of  anything  you  should  have  ! 
I  believe  the  whole  thing  was  a  deep-laid  plan  of  yours, 
that  you  might  be  under  the  same  roof  with  him  ! 

Mrs.  T.     I  !     /,  want  to  be  under  the  same  roof  with 
that  horrid  little  red-haired  man  ! 

Mrs.  S.  (gasping).     '  Horrid — little ' 

Mrs.  T.     Red-haired  man  ! 

Mrs.  S.  (furious).     Oh,  that  I  should  ha^■e  lived  to  be 
insulted  by  an  evil  woman,  who  poisons  my  happiness  and 


A  Joint  Household  153 

scoffs  at  my  clearest  affections  !  but  I  will  soon  learn  the 
rights  of  the  matter — I  will  return  to  Leeds  this  instant, 
by  the  very  next  train,  and  confront  him  with  the  proofs 
of  his  perjury  ! 

Mrs.  T.  Then  this  evening,  I  suppose,  by  exception, 
you  will  not  want  dinner  punctually  at  7.30  ? 

Mrs.  S.  Dinner  !  Do  you  suppose  I  would  ever  dine 
at  the  same  table,  or  sleep  under  the  same  roof  as  you  ? 
No,  madam,  the  arrangement  which  you  had  so  artfully 
combined  is  dissolved — we  are  a  joint  household  no  longer  ! 
I  might  have  known  that  a  woman  so  lax  in  all  domestic 
principles,  so  utterly  wanting  in  regularity  of  habits,  would 
Le  deficient  in  morals  also — you  are  no  fit  companion  for 
my  George  to  associate  with. 

Mrs.  T.     There  was  a  time  when  he  thought  differently. 

Mrs.  S.  Fling  it  in  my  teeth  as  much  as  you  like — you 
will  not  get  him  back  !  \^Bangs  out  of  tlm  room. 

Mrs.  T.  Ha  !  ha  !  Exit  to  get  her  things  out  of  the 
best  bed-room  !  Horrid,  odious  woman  !  how  glad  I  am 
she  is  gone  !  and  now  I  shall  write  to  Nurse  to  bring  the 
children  by  the  early  train  to-morrow — and  Edwin  will 
come  on  Saturday — how  happy  we  shall  all  be  ! 

Re-ent.er  Mrs.  Stubbs,  violently,  in  travelling  costume. 

Mrs.  S.  Good-bye,  madam !  I  hope  that  in  the  solitude 
and  discomfort  of  your  feckless  life  alone  here,  you  may 
come  to  a  sense  of  your  guilt  !  [Exit,  banging  dooi: 

Mrs.  T.  Oh,  I  shall  come  to  a  sense  of  the  inestimable 
comfort  of  no  longer  being  a  Joint  Household  ! 

Curtain. 


154 


AN  UNPUBLISHED   MS. 

COMEDIETTA   IN  ONE  ACT. 

CHARACTERS. 
Lady  Vebnon.  Mrs.  Payne. 

Scene.  ^Zac/^/  Verno'i'Cs  drawing -room. 

Enter  Lady  Ve,rnon. 

Lady  V.  Only  two  o'clock,  and  I  have  finished  luncheon 
already  !  dear  me,  how  fast  one  eats  when  one  is  alone — 
it  must  be  very  bad  for  one  !  I  took  my  novel  down  with 
nie,  thinking  that  then  I  shouldn't  hurry — but  it  had  just 
the  reverse  effect  !  as  when  I  came  to  the  exciting  part 
I  unconsciously  devoured  my  meal  as  fast  as  my  book — 
and  when  I  had  finished  the  chapter  and  came  to  the 
surface  again,  so  to  speak,  I  found  tJiat  my  cutlet  was 
gone  !  I  wish  I  liadn't  let  the  children  go  out  to  their 
aunt's — I  miss  them  dreadfully.  Besides,  I  am  quite  sure 
that  Molly  will  do  something  dreadful  at  luncheon,  and  I 
shall  be  told  afterwards  how  badly  she  behaved.  Well, 
well,  it  is  no  good  thinking  about  it.  What  a  horrid 
time  in  the  day  just  after  luncheon  is,  to  be  sure— it's 
neither  one  thing  nor  the  other — one  doesn't  feel  brisk 
enough  either  to  go  on  with  the  morning  or  begin  the  after- 
noon. I  shall  sit  down  and  finish  this  absurd  novel.  It 
really  is  rather  interesting,  though  one  of  my  friends  wrote 
it  !  [Settles  herself  in  arm-chair  with  hook?^  I  have  just  g..t 
to  the  part  where  the  hero,  who  is  eloping  with  the  heroine 
in  a  railway  carriage,  leans  against  the  door  in  a  tunnel 


An  Unpublished  MS.  155 

and  falls  out — very  embarrassing  for  her  !  \^Reads  on  to 
herself.^  Oh  dear  !  her  former  lover,  a  very  wicked  man, 
jumps  in  at  the  next  station  .  .  .  [^Reads  ow.]  Drags 
her  to  a  church  at  the  journey's  end,  and  marries  her  by 
force  !  This  is  indeed  thrilling  !  I  must  take  breath  a 
mpment  after  that.  \^Tjeans  hack,  musing.^  Why  is  it  that 
one's  friends  always  write  such  very  odd  books,  I  wonder  ? 
That  reminds  me  of  Mrs.  Payne,  whom  I  met  for  the  first 
time  at  the  Astleys,  the  other  afternoon — poor  thing,  what 
an  extraordinary  creature  she  is  !  the  most  flighty,  sen- 
timental, commonplace  of  human  beings,  and  the  most 
anxious  to  be  considered  a  genius  !  I  was  i-ather  interested 
at  meeting  her,  for  her  husband  and  I  used  to  be  friends — 
in  fact,  if  the  truth  were  known,  he  wanted  to  marry  me 
ten  years  ago,  when  I  was  Mary  Russell.  What  a  long 
way  off  that  seems,  and  how  absurd  he  was,  poor  fellow, 
always  beseeching  me  to  give  him  the  most  sentimental 
love  tokens  !  a  flower  I  had  held  in  my  hand,  a  bow  of 
ribbon  I  had  worn — once,  I  remember,  he  carried  off  a 
ridiculous  old  photograph  of  me,  done  when  I  was  a  girl 
of  sixteen — a  hideous  old  thing  it  was  too,  like  most  photo- 
graphs done  at  that  age  !  I  wish  I  had  it  now,  in  order 
to  see  if  it  is  like  Mary,  my  second  girl — she  is  supposed 
to  be  so  like  me.  It  is  too  annoying  of  the  creature  to 
have  carried  off'  the  only  copy  I  had  —  I  wonder  if  I  couldn't 
get  it  back  1  That  is,  if  it  hasn't  been  in  the  fire  these  ten 
years.  I  might  write  to  Mrs.  Payne  for  it  if  I  knew  her 
address,  the  piece  of  faded  sentiment  is  just  the  thing  she 
would  like.  I  am  told  the  whole  energy  of  her  being  has 
run  into  the  line  of  romantic  fiction,  which  she  reads  and 
slie  writes  till  she  thinks  that  everything  happens  in  the 
world  like  it  does  in  Arrowsmith's  novels  !  She  is  probably 
convinced  that  her  husband  has  erot  somethins:  dreadful — 
something  penny  dreadful  in  his  past — I  should  say  he's 
got  something  much  worse  in  his  present  !     I  wonder  if 


156  An  Unpublished  MS. 

she  reads  him  her  novels,  poor  fellow  !  I  am  told  she  is 
very  full  just  now  of  something  harrowing  she  is  writing, 
about  which  she  talks  to  everybody  as  the  most  profound 
secret,  and  then  offers  to  come  and  read  it  aloud  to  them 
afterwards  :  she  has  not  taken  that  desperate  course  with 
me  yet,  I  am  glad  to  say.  I  really  dont  see  why  I 
shouldn't  write  to  Mr.  Payne  for  the  photograph,  though 
I  don't  know  his  exact  address — it  is  sure  to  be  somewhere 
in  the  Temple.  It  will  be  so  amusing  to  show  it  to  the 
children,  and  tell  them  that  was  their  mother  eighteen 
years  ago.  I  will.  ( Writes)  '  Dear  Mr.  Payne,  in  case 
you  should  still  have  among  your  old  papers  a  photograph 
of  me,  done  when  I  was  sixteen,  it  would  be  very  good  of 
you  to  let  me  have  it  again.  I  have  no  other  copy,  and  I 
should  like  to  see  whether  it  resembles  my  eldest  girl. 
Yours  sincerely,  Mauy  Verxon.'  (^Addresses  it)  '  Robert 
Payne,  Esq.,  Temple,  EC — There,  that  will  be  very 
amusing  !  curious  that  the  thing  should  have  come  into 
one's  mind  after  being  out  of  it  all  these  years.  \^I*uts 
letter  on  table.^  I  wonder  why  the  two  o'clock  post  hasn't 
come  yet— it  is  very  late.  [Enter  Maid  with  letters.'\  Oh, 
what  a  nice  fat  bundle  !  [Opens  and  reads  them,  tkrowiwj 
envelopes  into  thefire.'\  Why,  all  these  seem  to  be  invitations 
to  tea  this  afternoon.  'Darling — come  to  a  meeting  of 
the  Primrose  League  this  afternoon  and  home  to  tea  after- 
wards.' [Shakes  headJ\  '  We  have  a  most  interesting 
Psychical  seance,  Mr.  Myers  in  the  chair.'  No,  thank 
you — be  told  a  hundred  well -authenticated  ghost  stories, 
and  then  be  afraid  to  come  home  in  the  dark  afterwards. 
'  Do  come  round  this  afternoon,  Nurse  has  gone  out  for  the 
day  and  I  am  keeping  darling  Baby.'  [Shakes  head)  '  We 
have  a  few  remarkable  people  to  tea,  do  look  in — Mr.  Glad- 
stone hasn't  absolutely  promised  to  come.'  That's  more  like 
it  !  Who  is  this,  I  wonder  ?  What  a  frenzied  hand- writing  ! 
[Turns  to  end. ^    '  Belinda  Pay  ne  ! '    She  looked  as  if  her  name 


An  Unpublished  MS.  157 

were  Belinda  !  AVhat  can  she  want? — 'Dear  Lady  Vernon, 
you  were  so  kind  the  other  evening  as  to  ask  nie  to  come 
and  see  you  '  (that  is  to  say  she  was  so  kind  as  to  ask  if  she 
might  come  and  see  me  !  !)  So,  as  I  shall  be  in  your  part  of 
the  world  this  afternoon  about  2 '30,  it  will  give  me  so 
much  pleasure  to  look  in  on  the  chance  of  finding  you.  I 
shall  have  a  few  chapters  of  my  last  book  with  me  \ptarts\, 
which  I  have  promised  to  read  at  Mrs.  Jessop's  this  after- 
noon.' [Jumps  u]).^  Heavens  !  I  will  rush  and  say  I'm  not 
at  home. 

[As  sJie  gets  to  tlie  door  the  Maid  throws  it  open  and 
announces  Mrs.  Payne. 
Lady  V.     Too  late  ! 

Enter  Mrs.  Payne  tvith  a  large  roll  of  MS.  in  her  liand. 

Mrs.  P.  (effusively).  How  do  you  do,  my  dear  Lady 
Vernon  1  you  received  my  note,  I  hope  1 

Lady  V.     I  was  just  reading  it. 

Mrs.  P.  Indeed.  How  curious  !  I  thought  I  should 
be  more  certain  of  finding  you  in  if  I  wrote  beforehand. 

Lady  V.  (aside).  I'm  not  so  sure  of  that,  if  I  had  had 
half  a  minute  longer  ! 

Mrs.  P.  (takes  MS.)  I  am  a  little  earlier  than  I  said,  I 
think.  My  hansom  drove  very  fast.  I  had  at  first  meant 
to  come  in  an  omnibus,  but  the  idea  of  the  seething,  jostling 
crowd  repelled  me — it  would  have  been  too  much,  I  am  sure, 
for  the  state  in  which  my  nerves  are  to-day,  so  I  took  a 
hansom.  There  is  something  very  soothing  in  its  rapid 
motion.  Do  you  know,  it  is  quite  curious  how  often  my 
moments  of  great  inspiration  are  in  hansoms  1 

Lady  V.     That  must  be  very  inconvenient. 

Mrs.  P.  But  there  is  something  very  interesting  in  a 
'bus  too,  don't  you  think  so  1  Has  it  never  struck  you  how 
very  like  life  it  is  ] 


158  An  Unpublished  MS. 

Lady  V.  (bored).  No,  I  can't  say  that  it  has. 
Mrs.  P.  Really  ?  how  curious  !  to  me  it  is  so  like  it. 
People  getting  in,  people  getting  out,  jostling  one  another 
— meeting — going  away  again  —  oh,  so  like  it  !  But  the  fact 
is,  things  appeal  to  me  in  a  way  they  don't  to  most  people. 
I  think  it  is  that  my  imagination  is  livelier — I  see  the 
relations  of  things  in  a  way  that  most  people  don't — I  seem 
somehow  to  have  a  knack  of  simile — of  comparisons — • 
after  all,  everyone  can't  have  the  same  sort  of  knack,  can 
they  1 

Lady  V.     No,  and  a  very  good  thing  they  can't. 
Mrs.  P.  (heartily).     Oh,  I  do  so  agree  with  you.    I  see 
you  think  exactly  as  I  do  about  things,  I'm  sure  we  shall 
get  on  famously  together. 

Lady  V.  I'm  so  glad  you  think  so. 
Mrs.  P.  Oh,  I  feel  quite  certain  of  it  !  That's  an- 
other thing  about  me,  I  have  such  an  unerring  instinct 
about  people  I  meet,  it's  almost  a  divination.  Now  the 
other  evening  when  I  met  you  at  the  Astleys,  before  I 
had  talked  to  you  five  minutes  I  had  formed  my  impres- 
sion of  what  our  relations  to  each  other  were.  Hadn't 
you  ? 

Lady  V.     Oh,  quite  definitely,  I  assure  you. 
Mrs.  P.     Exactly,  and  I  felt  I  could  talk  to  you  about 
all  kinds  of  things.    I  mean  intimate,  private  things  that  I 
wouldn't   dream    of  discussing  with    most   people — about 
what  I  am  writing,  you  know,  and  that  sort  of  thing. 

[Makes  a  motion  totcards  MS. 
Lady  V.  (alarmed).     Won't  you  undo  your  cloak  ?     I 
am  afraid  it  must  be  very  hot  in  here,  isn't  it  ? 

[Puts  roll  0/  MS.  on  further  table. 

Mrs.  P.    Oh,  thank  you,  you  really  are  very  kind.    No, 

I  don't  take  ofi"  any  more,  thank  you,  I  will  just  remove 

my  boa.     Why 

Jjady  V.     Your  muff?     Here  it  is. 


An  Unpublished  MS.  159 

Mrs.  P.  Xo,  thank  you.  It  was  a  roll  of  papers  I  had 
iu  my  hand. 

[3/?\<f.   P.  looks    round.     Lady    V.  sees  tlie  letter  to 
Mr.  P.  and  puts  it  quickly  in  lier  pocket. 

Lady  V.  (pretending  to  look).  Oh,  this  must  be  it,  I 
suppose — this  roll  that  I  happened  to  have  put  down  over 
here. 

Mrs.  P.  (delighted).  Thank  you,  that's  it,  I  began  to 
think  I  must  have  lost  it  on  the  way. 

[Holds  out  her  Jiandfor  it. 

Lady  V.  Oh,  there  is  no  hurry  for  it  yet.  You  shall 
have  it  before  you  go  away.       [Replaces  it  on  further  table. 

Mrs.  P.  (with  a  little  affected  laugh).  I  dare  say  you 
are  wondering 

Lady  V.     You  are  quite  sure  you  are  not  too  hot  ? 

Mrs.  P.  (impatiently).     Quite,  thank  you. 

Lady  V.  Because  this  has  been  such  a  particularly  cold 
clay — a  soi't  of  damp  insidious  day,  and  one  ought  to  be  Aery 
careful  about  not  being  overheated  indoors,  and  then  getting 
a  chill  going  out. 

3frs.  P.  Thank  you,  I  am  glad  to  say  I  don't  get  over- 
heated indoors,  neither  do  I  get  chilled  going  out. 

Lady  V.  Indeed  1  You  are  very  fortunate.  You  are 
quite  independent  of  the  weather  then  1 

Mrs.  P.  Yes,  I  am  glad  to  say  so.  You  will  perhaps 
think  it  curious,  that  a  person  like  myself,  so  acutely  sus- 
ceptible to  eveiy  mental  and  moral  influence,  so  strongly 
sensitive  to  the  magnetic  currents  of  the  universe  around 
us,  should  not  be  more  susceptible  to  the  material  influence 
of  cold.     That  is  what  you  were  thinking,  I  dare  say. 

Lady  Y.  Yes,  I  was  thinking,  certainly,  how  nice  it 
must  be  not  to  catch  cold — but  since  I  have  adopted  the 
habit  of  taking  ten  drops  of  camphor  on  a  piece  of  sugar 
whenever  I  feel  a  cold  coming  on,  I  feel  almost  as  inde- 
pendent of  chills  as  you  do. 


i6o  An  Unpublished  MS. 

Mrs.  P.  (bored).     Indeed  ? 

Lady  V.  But  the  London  climate  is  very  trying,  don't 
you  think  so  ? 

Mrs.  P.  Extremely  so,  in  several  respects,  but  most 
especially  in  the  way  that  it  obtrudes  itself  into  the  front 
of  every  conversation,  until  people  seem  to  be  able  to  think 
and  speak  of  nothing  else. 

Lady  V.  Still,  people  must  make  rather  meaningless 
remarks  sometimes,  just  to  begin  the  conversation. 

Mrs.  P.     I  really  don't  see  why — I  never  do. 

Lady  V.     What  would  you  have  them  speak  of  then  1 

Mrs.  P.  Of  life's  dark  depths,  of  the  heart's  dark  un- 
fathomable depths  of  sorrow  .... 

Lady  V.  Dear  me — your  experience  seems  to  have  been 
an  unfortunate  one. 

Mrs.  P.  Unfortunate  !  ah  !  you  may  indeed  say  so  ! 
I  have  tasted  an  agony  which  it  is  given  to  few  to  endure — 
while  others  may  be  assailed  by  the  straightforwai-d  blows 
of  visible  misfortune,  for  which  they  may  claim  the  sym- 
pathy of  their  fellow-creatures — I — / — must  creep,  crawl, 
crushed  along,  under  the  weight  of  a  concealed  and  invisible 
sorrow.  Ah  me !  If  the  world  but  knew  my  sad  story  ! 
A  dark  history  is  mine  ! 

Lady  V.     Indeed  !     I  am  very  sorry  to  hear  it. 

Mrs.  P.  To  explain  it,  I  must  go  back  many  years 
\^Lady  V.  sighs],  to  the  time  when,  an  innocent  child,  I 
frolicked  in  the  fields  with  darling  Bobby. 

Lady  V.  (surprised).     Darling  Bobby  1     Who  is  that  1 

Mrs.  P.     Mr.  Payne. 

Lady  V.  Well,  but  I  don't  quite  understand.  He 
wasn't  Mr.  Payne — I  mean  you  were  not  Mrs.  Payne  then  ? 

Mrs.  P.  It  is  true,  I  was  not  in  fact,  but  I  already  was 
in  intention,  for,  childlike,  we  had  plighted  our  troth  to  one 
another,  and  agreed  that  we  would  marry  when  we  grew 
up.     Alas  !  for  the  fond  trustingness  of  our  childhood  ! 


An  Unpublished  MS.  i6i 

Lady  V.  Well,  but  you've  carried  out  your  agreement 
after  all,  since  you  are  married  ! 

JUrs.  P.  Ah  !  but  now  comes  the  tragic  part  of  my 
story.  Mr.  Payne  arrived  at  manhood,  went  to  college, 
and  in  due  time  began  his  career  at  the  bar.  My  father 
and  mother  died,  and  I  came  to  live  with  one  of  my  aunts 
in  London,  so  that  Bobby  and  I,  who  had  frolicked  hand 
in  hand  in  the  fields,  could  now  have 

Lady  V.     Frolicked  hand  in  hand  in  the  Park  1 

Mrs.  P.  Yes,  not  actually  peihaps,  but  in  the  spirit. 
It  was  nothing  of  the  kind  ! 

I^ady  V.     Indeed  ? 

Mrs.  P.  For  three  years,  for  three  long  years  did  he 
keep  aloof  from  her  he  loved  so  well,  for  three  years  she 
pined  in  secret.  Now  tell  me — what  was  he  doing  these 
three  years  ? 

Lady  V.  (startled).     Why  do  you  ask  me  1 

Mrs.  P.  I  ask  you,  alas  !  with  no  hope  of  your  being 
able  to  give  me  an  answer — but  only  as  a  human  being,  as 
oiie,  perhaps,  of  that  universal  sisterhood  of  those  who 
despairingly  love — what,  oh  !  what  was  he  doing  during 
those  three  years  t 

Lady  V.  Well,  I  imagine  that  he  was  deep  in  examina- 
tions. I  suppose  Mr.  Bobby — I  beg  his  pardon,  Mr.  Payne 
— -like  most  other  young  men,  was  examined,  before  he 
could  embrace  his  career,  in  a  great  many  subjects  abso- 
lutely foreign  to  it. 

Mrs.  P.  No — no — I  fear  it  must  have  been  something 
much  more  potent  than  the  laM',  which  could  engage  his 
fiHections.  It  was,  I  am  convinced,  some  artful,  designing 
woman  (perhaps  even  more  than  one !),  into  whose  toils  be 
fell,  and  who  stole  away  the  heart  that  should  have  been 
mine  ! 

Lady  V.  Perhaps,  if  he  did  think  of  some  one  else 
during  the  time,  the  fault  was  not  hers,  but  his  ! 

M 


1 62  An  Unpublished  MS. 

Mrs.  P.  Impossible  that  one  who  had  given  his  heart 
into  mi/  keeping  should  have  voluntarily  succumbed  to  the 
wiles  of  the  ordinary  butterfly  of  society.  For  I  am  con- 
scious of  being  a  woman  of  peculiar  type.  A  man  who 
cared  for  me  would  not  lightly  turn  his  thoughts  elsewhere 
unless  he  were  forcibly  drawn  into  it.  Yes,  I  am  a  strange 
being  !  I  never  made  an  attempt  to  allure  the  opposite 
sex — during  the  whole  time  of  my  probation  no  man 
ever  ventured  to  address  the  smallest  word  of  admiration 
to  me. 

Lady  V.  (aside).     I  don't  wonder. 

Mrs.  P.  I  might  have  expected  Bobby's  conduct  to  be 
the  same — but  what  good  is  it  to  talk  of  the  past  1  Some 
day,  some  day  I  shall  come  face  to  face  with  those  women, 
and  taunt  them  with  my  wrongs— they  shall  know — the 
world  shall  know — shortly.  [Pises,  looking  at  MS. 

Lady  V.  Must  you  go  1  Well  it  is  very  good  of  you  to 
h  ive  come.     Remember  me  to  Mr. 

Mrs.  P.  No — I  need  not  go  for  a  while  yet.  I  ro§e  to 
seek  yonder  confidante  of  my  grief.  [Sitting  again. 

Lady  V.  Yonder  ?....!  beg  your  pardon — what  is 
it  you  want  1 

Mrs.  P.     Yonder  scroll. 

Lady  V.  Oh  !  that  roll  of  papers  !  here  it  is,  but  if  you 
are  not  going  just  yet  you  don't  want  it. 

Mrs.  P.  Yes  I  do,  thank  you.  It  will  help  me  to  tell 
you  and  others  my  soul's  story. 

[Sits  with  roll  in  her  hand — sighs  a  deep  sigh. 

Lady  V.  Pei  haps  you  are  feeling  the  cold  1  I  beg  your 
pardon,  I  remember  you  don't  like  to  have  it  mentioned. 

Mrs.  P.  The  cold  I  feel  is  the  cold,  cruel,  gi-im  grasp 
of  grief  laid  upon  my  heart. 

Lady  V.  (aside).  What  a  very  pei-plexing  symptom  ! 
(Aloud)  I  am  sorry  you  feel  uncomfortable. 

Mrs.    P.     Ah,    dear   lady—  uncomfortable  I    that   were 


An  Unpublished  MS.  163 

indeed  little — but  stay,  I  will  read  you  some  papers  into 
which  my  full  heart  has  overflowed.  You  will  then  under- 
stand the  significance  of  my  words. 

Lady  V.  Certainly,  I  shall  be  delighted.  (Aside)  I 
am  in  for  it  now,  so  I  may  as  well  put  a  good  face  on  it — 
besides  which,  the  conversation  was  beginning  to  take 
rather  an  awkward  turn  !  (Aloud)  What  do  you  call 
your  book  ? 

Mrs.  P.  *  The  Loves  of  the  Deceived  Alinda.'  What  do 
you  think  of  that  title  ? 

Lady  V.     I  think  it  a  very  good  title. 

Mrs.  P.  Ah — good — is  that  all  ?  Doesn't  it  strike  you 
also  as  having  something  of  yearning  and  sorrowful,  yet 
forgiving  and  womanly  in  it  1 

Lady  V.     And  now  you  mention  it  I  think  it  does. 

Mrs.  P.  Ah  !  I  am  glad  you  feel  it  as  I  do.  You  will 
tell  me,  will  you  not,  if  any  criticism  occurs  to  you  ?  It. 
may  have  happened  that  in  the  soul's  passionate  outpouring 
some  minor  details  of  style  have  been  overlooked — thou  ^h 
generally  speaking  my  style  is  a  singularly  finished  and 
perfect  one. 

Lady  V.  I  really  don't  think  I  can  promise  that — I  am 
so  very  ignorant  of  these  things. 

Mrs.  P.  But  that  will  make  your  genuine  simple 
remarks  the  more  valuable. 

Lady  V.     Very  well,  I  will  then. 

Mrs.  P.  I  fear  I  haven't  time  to  go  through  the  earlier 
chapters.  I  have  called  each  book  by  some  appropriate 
name.  1.  Preparation.  2.  Probation.  3.  Expectation. 
4.  Revelation.     That  sounds  well,  does  it  not  ? 

Lady  V.     Indeed,  yes  ! — it  sounds  .  .  .  portentous. 

Mrs.  P.     Portentous — it  is.     (Beads)  Book   4 — Reve 
lation.      '  The    sun    was    shining    brightly    through   the 
windows  as  Alinda  took  leave  of  her  husband  for  the  day. 
"  I  shall  be  in  at  five  then,  my  dear,"  he  said,  as  he  felt  in 

M  2 


164  An  Unpublished  MS. 

his  coat  pccket  for  his  gloves.'  I  think  it  well  to  throw 
in  these  little  domestic  touches,  in  order  to  heighten  tlie 
effect  of  the  awful  tragic  eleinent  that  follows.  ' "  Very 
well,"  she  replied,  "  the  day  will  not  seem  long,  I  am  going 
to  turn  out  the  spare  room."  "  Oh,  capital  !  "  he  answered, 
heartily.  "  By  the  way,  darling,"  she  said  as  he  turned  to 
go,  "  can  you  give  me  the  key  of  that  secretary  %  There 
are  several  drawers  I  must  use."  So  unsuspecting  was  she  ! 
"The  key  of  the  secretary  % "  he  said  slowly,  "  I  don't  think 
I  have  it — but  all  the  drawers  are  open,  I  believe,  except 
one  or  two  that  have  nothing  but  old  papers  in  them." 
"  Very  well,"  she  answered  with  a  strange  calmness. 
"  Good-bye,  dear,"  he  said.  "  At  live  then,"  and  went  out. 
Alinda  stood  motionless,  to  the  eye,  but  with  the  intense 
vivid  perception  of  a  moment  of  supreme  crisis.  She 
remembered  afterwards,  when  the  blow  had  fallen,  how,  as 
she  stood  there,  she  had  heard  her  husband  give  two  slams  to 
the  hall  door  to  make  it  shut,  and  had  vaguely  thought  that 
the  first  dull  thud  was  caused  by  a  piece  of  his  ulster  being 
caught  in  it.     Ah  !  never  again,  never  again  ! ' 

Jjndy  V.     What,  never  again  1 

Mrs.  I\  Oh,  you'll  soon  see— that  one  word  is  a  kind 
of  epitome  of  her  whole  bygone  life,  and ,  the  beginning  of 
a  fresh  era  of  sorrow. 

Lady  V.     I  see. 

Mrs.  P.  '  Silently  she  turned — and  walked  upstairs 
with  her  Fate ' 

Lady  V.     With  her  what  1 

Mrs.  P.  With  her  fate — her  destiriy  —  it's  clear  enough 
when  you  see  it  written — a  big  F. 

Lady  V.     Oh — yes — but  should  it  not  be  fo  her  fate  ? 

Mrs.  P.  Now,  now,  my  dear  Lady  Vernon,  you  must 
forgive  my  saying  so,  but  that  is  just  where  an  inexperienced 
critic  goes  astray  —  we  of  the  craft  know  what  a  magical 
effect  may  be  produced  by  one  unexpected  word. 


An  Unpublished  ATS.  165 

Lady  V.  The  fact  is,  as  you  say,  I  am  so  very  inex- 
perienced, that  I  am  afraid  my  criticisms  will  not  be  of 
much  use  to  you. 

J/rs.  P.  Oh,  not  at  all,  I  am  quite  delighted  to  hear 
what  you  say — only  you  know  what  I  mean,  don't  you  ? 

Lady  V.  Oh,  entirely.  What  happened  then,  when  she 
got  upstairs  with  her  fate  ? 

Mrs.  F.  *  The  rest  of  the  morning  passed,  she  never 
knew  how — she  must  mechanically  have  turned  out  the 
spare  room  as  she  intended,  for  there  were  odds  and  ends 
in  all  the  chairs — seven  best  pincushions  on  the  table — a 
he^p  of  old  cotton  dresses  on  the  floor.  At  length,  her 
work  done,  calm  and  resolute,  she  stood  in  front  of  the 
secretary — she  tried  one  drawer — then  another — they 
yielded  to  her  touch  with  glib  and  hollow  smilingness.'  Do 
you  like  those  epithets,  'glib  and  hollow  smilingness  "?  they 
are  effective,  are  they  not  ? 

Lady  V.  They  are  certainly,  as  you  were  saying  just 
now,  unexpected. 

Mrs.  P.  There  now,  you  see  how  quickly  you  could 
get  in  the  way  of  seeing  those  little  things,  it  makes  such 
a  difference  to  one's  enjoyment  of  literature,  you  can't 
think  ! 

Lady  V.  /^resigned).  I  should  like  to  enjoy  some  things 
more,  I  must  say. 

Mrs.  P.  'Only  the  bottom  drawer  remained — with  the 
heroic  self-control  of  a  martyr  she  tried  it — it  resisted  her 
efforts,  it  was  locked  —she  never  lost  her  presence  of  mind — 
she  hesitated  not  an  instant,  but,  with  infinite  courage  and 
coolness,  she  went  straight  to  the  box  of  keys  that  was  in 
her  bedroom  and  searched  until  she  found  one  which  would 
fit  the  lock — slowly  she  turned  it — slowly  she  opened  the 
drawers — transfixed  she  stood,  and  gazed  at  the  contents.' 
Now  what  is  your  feeling  about  the  situation  1 

Lady  V.     I  am  wondering  what  she  saw. 


1 66  An  Unpublished  MS. 

Mrs.  P.  Precisely.  You  see  the  tremendous  signifi- 
cance of  that  awful  moment  1 

Lady  V.     Certainly. 

Mrs.  P.  I  felt  sure  that  you  would— that  you  must  ! 
I  resume.  '  She  gazed  at  the  contents,  which  were  arranged 
and  labelled  somewhat  after  the  fashion  of  specimens — but 
they  were  in  truth  a  strange  museum  !  for  of  what  did 
they  consist  ?  An  old  kid  glove— a  piece  of  white  ribbon 
— a  pencil — a  dead  flower — a  photograph ' 

Lady  V.  (aside).    A  photograph — that  was  where  it  was  ! 

Mrs.  P.     What  did  you  say  1 

Lady  V.  I  was  only  exclaiming  in  surprise  at  the 
contents  of  the  drawer. 

Mrs.  P.  I  don't  wonder.  'Each  of  these  was  on  a 
piece  of  white  paper,  on  which  some  initials  were  clearly 
penned.  Whose  initials? — the  name  of  Alinda's  husband 
was  Gascoigne — therefore  A.G.  might  have  been  there  — 
her  maiden  name  had  been  Berkley,  therefore  still  more 
might  A.B.  have  been  affixed  to  such  relics  of  the  past— 
but  no — for  neither  of  these  names,  it  was  clear,  did  the 
initials  stand  !  under  the  kid  glove  was  E.H.C.  —  by  the 
ribbon,  F.W.— the  flower,  M.M.R. — the  pencil  M.R.  again 
— there  they  were  over  and  over  again,  the  fateful  hideous 
characters,  attached  to  everything  !  Alinda  gasped  — Alinda 
gazed — here,  here,  it  was  too  evident,  did  her  husband 
keep  his  heart — the  rest  of  his  miserable  life  was  but  the 
unstable  shallowness  of  a  dream.  Oh,  miserable  Alinda  ! 
alas,  alas,  for  alone  Alinda  ! ' 

Lady  V.  Mrs.  Payne,  if  I  may  make  one  more  ol)ser- 
vation — why  was  Alinda  so  perturbed  1 

Mrs.  P.     Why  1  !  !  Great  Hea^'ens,  she  asks  why  ! ! 

Lady  V.  After  all,  even  supposing  that  her  husband  — 
like  many  other  husbands — had  had  some  so-called  love 
afiairs — a  harmless  amusement  enough — before  he  was 
married,  what  tlien  1 


An  Unpubiishea  MS.  167 

Mrs.  P.     What  then  ?  !  ! 

Lady  V.  I  admit  that  most  men  don't  perpetuate  the 
recollection  of  their  youth  by  tying  up  their  relics  in  a 
drawer  with  neat  labels — but  that  is  not  because  they  are 
more  virtuous — it  is  because  they  are  less  methodical. 

Mrs.  P.  Ah,  cease — cease  !  is  it  possible  you  can  speak 
so  lightly  1  What,  do  you  not  see  that  it  is  my  own  story 
I  have  been  reading  to  you — that  I — /  am  the  wretched, 
deceived  Alinda  — I  was  the  wife  who  bade  good-bye  to 
her  husband  in  the  hall,  who,  alone  with  her  sorrow, 
turned  out  the  spare  room — who  opened  the  drawer  of  the 
secretary — I  who  have  been  torn  by  a  jealous  agony  ever 
since  my  eye  tirst  fell  on  that  photograph,  that  miserable 
photograph— and  oh  !  of  such  a  hideous  gawky  girl  ! 

Lady  V.  (aside).     Thank  you  !  ha  !  ha  !  ha  ! 

\^Lady  V.  draws  out  her  handkerchief  to  conceal  her 
laughter — the  letter  to  Mr.  Payne  falls  out,  at 
Mrs.  P.'s  feet.  Silence.  Then  Mrs.  P.  jn^^ks 
it  up. 

Mrs.  P.  It  wouM  be  idle  to  pretend  that  I  have  not 
seen  the  name  on  that  letter  ! — what— you  have  been  writ- 
ing secretly  to  my  husband  —you,  to  whom  I  have  been 
confiding  the  history  of  my  love  !  oh  !  shame  on  you  — 
wicked,  wicked  woman  !  while  you  listened  with  pretended 
sympathy  to  my  tale,  you  had  even  then  in  your  pocket 
the  letter  that  was  to  estrange  him  from  me — but  you  shall 
see — Belinda  Payne  is  not  to  be  tamely  vanquished — Lady 
Vernon,  we  shall  meet  again. 

[^I-'uts  letter  down  on  table,  prepares  to  go. 

Lady  V.  Mrs.  Payne,  will  you  ob'ige  me  by  reading 
that  letter  ? 

Mrs.  P.  I  read  it  ?  never  !  This  was  meant  for 
Bobby,  not  for  me.     I  will  not  touch  the  accursed  thing. 

[Throws  it  into  the  f  re. 

Lady    V.     I  beg  your  pai'don  [Snatches  it  out^ — after 


i6S  An  Unpublished  MS. 

the  very  extraordinary  language  you  have  used  to  me  in 
ray  own  house,  I  think  you  are  bound  to  read  it  when  I 
beg  you  to  do  so. 

Mrs.  P.  I  will  read  it — I  will  know  the  extent  of 
your  infamy.  \Reads  letter. 

Lady  V.     Well,  it  isn't  so  very  infamous  after  all,  is  it  1 

Mrs.  P.  This  portrait,  this  photograph  of  which  you 
speak 

Lady  V.  It  is  the  one  you  found  in  the  drawer, 
labelled  M.R. — that  hideous,  gawky  girl,  you  know. 

Mrs.  P.     What  ?  that  was— 

Ljody  V.  Myself — it  was  a  photograph  of  me,  and  I 
regret  to  say  very  like  me.  I  quite  agree  with  you  that  I 
was  very  unprepossessing  then. 

Mrs.  P.  The  hateful  mystery  grows  darker  and  darker. 
How  did  your  photograph  come  into  his  possession  ? 

Lady  V.  In  the  simplest  way  in  the  world.  He  asked 
me  for  it,  and  I  gave  it  to  him. 

Mrs.  P.     He  asked  you  for  it— why  ? 

Lady  V.  Why  ?  I  suppose  because  he  was  in  love 
with  me. 

Mrs.  P.  In  love  with  you  !  ha  !  now  the  horrid  truth 
is  revealed.  By  your  own  lips,  in  spite  of  your  plausible 
words,  you  have  convicted  yourself.  It  is  you  who  have 
rushed  between  me  and  my  happiness  ! 

Lady  V.  I  can't  be  angry  with  you,  for  the  whole 
thing  is  too  absurd.  This  is  simply  what  happened.  Ten 
years  ago  Mr.  Payne  fell  in  love  with  me,  I  admit — a  thing 
wliich  often  happens  when  people  are  young  and  foolish — ■ 
he  asked  me  to  marry  him — I  refused  -  ho  then  fell  out  of 
love  again,  a  thing  that  happens  still  of tener,  and  there  was 
an  end  of  it.  I  had  meant  to  tell  you  this  in  any  case, 
after  hearing  your  tale,  just  to  prove  to  you  that  the 
imaginary  being  you  had  been  conjuring  up,  whose  malign 
induence  hangs  darkling  over  your  life,  is  nothing  of  the 


An  Unpublished  MS.  169 

kind— that  she  is  simply  a  commonplace  matron  sitting 
quietly  and  happily  by  her  own  hearth,  and  no  more  con- 
cerned at  what  your  husband  is  doing,  or  what  he  did  ten 
years  ago,  than  he  is  with  her. 

Mrs.  P.  How  can  that  be,  when  you  this  very  day 
have  wi-itten  him  a  letter  secretly,  addressed  to  his  chani 
bei-s  % 

Lady  V.  Ha  !  ha  !  ha  !  I  beg  your  pardon — this  is 
really  too  funny  !  Appearances  are  against  me,  I  must 
confess  !  This  is  the  plain  fact — when  I  met  you  the  other 
day,  I  was  reminded  for  the  first  time  for  many  years  of 
Mr.  Payne,  and  of  that  old  photograph — another  very  plain 
fact ! — that  he  has.  I  want  it,  to  see  if  it  is  like  my  eldest 
girl — so,  as  I  didn't  know  your  address,  I  wrote  to  the 
Temple,  which  I  imagined  would  find  him  somehow — that 
is  the  whole  history. 

Mi\^.  P.  What,  can  this  really  be  ?  But  no,  there 
were  others  yet — F.W.  and  E.H.C. — who  were  they  ? 

Lady  V.  (quietly).  E.H.C.  was  Ethel  Creswick — she 
married  the  year  after  I  did,  and  went  out  to  India,  where 
she  has  been  ever  since.  F.W.  was  Flora  Williamson, 
whom  your  husband  certainly  admired,  as  everyone  else 
did — she  died  at  Mentone,  poor  girl,  a  long  time  ago. 

Jfrs.  P.     She  is  dead  1 

Lady  V.  Yes,  F.W.  is  dead — E.H.C.  transported  for 
life — and  M.R.,  I  assure  you,  is  quite  harmless — so  there  are 
all  your  ghosts  laid. 

Mrs.  P.  (holding  out  her  hands  to  Lady  V.)  Forgive 
me  !  I  have  wronged  you. 

Lady  V.  Forgive — there  is  nothing  to  forgive — the 
whole  thing  is  laughable  !  But  now,  since  we  are  making 
friends,  let  me  take  the  privilege  of  one,  and  entreat  you, 
w  ho  ought  to  be  one  of  the  happiest  of  women,  not  to  insist 
on  being  the  most  miserable — just  take  life  in  an  ordinary 
and  sensible  way  as  it  comes,  and  you  will  find  it  a  very 


1 70  An  Unpublished  31 S, 

pleasant  way  of  passing  the  time.  When  your  hus'jand 
comes  in  tired  and  worried,  take  it  for  granted  that  it  has 
something  to  do  with  the  day's  business,  and  not  with  his 
early  love  affairs  ! 

Mrs.  P.  Yes,  I  know  he  often  says  it  is  his  business, 
but  I  never  believed  him  ! 

Lady  V.  Well,  I  am  sure  that  if  you  would  turn  your 
attention  more  to  the  endless  delightful  possibilities  of 
everyday  life,  and  neglect  romantic  fiction  a  little,  you 
would  be  ever  so  much  happier. 

Mrs.  P.  Ah — that,  I  fear,  I  could  not  promise  quite — ■ 
neglect  fiction  !  no,  no — I  really  feel  it  would  be  wrong, 
with  a  gift  like  mine,  not  to  go  on  writing — the  'Loves  of  the 
Deceived  Alinda'  must  be  finished,  but  I  can  go  more  bravely 
to  work  now  that  I  feel  it  is  not  my  own  melancholy  history 
I  am  recording. 

Lady  V.  Well,  if  you  promise  not  to  identify  yourself 
with  the  heroine  I  must  be  satisfied,  I  suppose. 

Mrs.  P.  And  now  I  must  be  going.  I  have  stayed  an 
unconscionable  time,  but  oh,  I  go  with  a  lighter  heart  than 
I  came  with  ! 

Ijady  V.  (shaking  hands  warmly).    I  am  glad  to  hear  it. 

Mrs.  P.  I  may  come  and  see  you  again  some  day,  may 
I  not? 

Lady  V.     I  shall  be  delighted. 

Mrs.  P.  And  then,  you  know,  I  can  read  you  the  rest 
of  my  unpublished  MS  ! 

Curtain. 


171 


A   MODERN  LOCUSTA 

CHARACTERS. 
Mes.  Veenon.  Mrs.  Meeeixdee. 

Mrs.  Vernon  discovered,  alone. 

Mrs.  V.  (reading  the  '  World  ').  Dear  me  !  How  dull 
the  '  World  '  is  this  week.  It's  generally  so  delightful.  I 
took  it  in  first  to  guess  the  acrostics,  and  then  when  I 
found  how  entertaining  the  rest  of  the  paper  was,  I  read  it 
regularly,  from  the  first  page  to  the  last — but  I  must  say  I 
don't  think  this  one  is  worth  it.  \^Looks  np  and  down  the 
columns.^  I  wonder  what  this  paragraph  is  about.  '  It  is 
rumoured  that  an  eminent  Q.C.,  in  spite  of  the  proverbial 
clear-sightedness  of  his  profession,  is  about  to  be  united  in 
the  bonds  of  holy  matrimony  to  a  lady  who  was  once 
known  in  criminal  circles  as  the  modern  Locusta.'  Locusta  ! 
What  does  that  mean  ?  Who  was  the  ancient  Locusta,  I 
wonder  ?  Now  this  is  the  good  of  guessing  acrostics.  You 
have  all  sorts  of  books  to  tell  you  things.  [Takes  a  hook  to 
look  it  out.]  Locusta,  a  celebrated  female  poisoner  in  the 
time  of  Nero.  A  poisoner  !  Fancy  an  eminent  Q.C. 
marrying  a  poisoner.  I  must  ask  my  uncle  about  that- 
He  will  hi  so  interested  in  one  of  his  brother  barristers 
doing  such  a  thing.  I  know  !  Ill  pretend  that  I  think  it 
is  himself.  Ha,  ha,  what  a  good  joke  that  would  be  !  No, 
I  must  say  I  can't  imagine  Uncle  Greville  ever  marrying  ! 
How  funny  it  would  be  !     Why,  if  he  did  I  should  feel  as  if 


1/2  A  Modern  Locust  a 

I  had  a  step-mother  !  I  wonder  what  she  would  be  like  ? 
The  very  pattern  of  respectability,  I'm  sure  !  And  have  big 
grey  curls  here  \Tou(ihing  cheeks\.  However,  it  isn't  very 
likely  to  happen  !  He  hardly  ever  speaks  to  any  woman. 
In  fact,  I  was  quite  surprised  when  I  saw  him  taking  Mrs. 
Merrinder  about  the  other  niglit  at  Lady  Grey's,  and 
providing  her  with  supper  in  the  most  empresse  way.  Pro- 
bably she  is  a  wealthy  client.  Well,  he  shall  marry  if  he 
likes,  though  it  would  certainly  be  a  blow  to  me  if  he  did. 
But  anything  to  make  him  happy  —though,  after  all,  it 
would  never  make  him  happy  to  go  away  from  Pliilip  and 
me  and  the  baby.  Why,  as  he  has  often  said,  he  looks  on 
my  husband  and  me  as  his  own  children — and  the  baby  !  he 
adores  the  baby,  and  no  wonder.  [^Looks  at  clock.^  Dear 
baby  !  I  wonder  how  soon  he  will  be  in.  \(^joes  towindoiv.^ 
Oh,  dear  me,  there's  the  sun  shining,  and  I  told  nurse  to  take 
an  umbrella,  because  I  thought  it  would  rain.  Oh  no,  there's 
a  cloud.  I'm  so  glad.  I  was  right,  then.  Oh,  how  nice  it 
is  to  have  a  baby,  and  a  husband,  and  an  uncle,  a  delightful 
uncle  like  one  in  a  fairy  tale,  always  showering  presents 
upon  one.  I  really  am  a  lucky  woman.  The  only  thing  is 
that  my  nurse  is  going  away,  and  she  does  make  baby's 
food  so  beautifully.  However,  I  have  advertised  for 
another,  so  I  dare  say  it  will  all  come  right.  I've  said, 
'  Can  anybody  recommend  a  trustworthy  nurse  1 '  for  I  must 
have  her  trustworthy,  it  would  be  so  fearful  if  I  couldn't 
depend  on  her  to  make  baby's  food.  How  long  the  day  is  ! 
I  wish  I  hadn't  finished  the  'World.'  I  think  I  shall  put 
my  hat  on  and  go  and  join  nurse  and  baby  in  the  square. 

[Exit. 

Enter  Mrs.  Merrinder. 

Mrs  M.  She  is  not  here.  How  foolish  I  have  been  to 
come  up  unannounced.  What  shall  I  do  next  ?  Have  I 
not  made  a  mistake  in  coming  here  at  all— in  wishina:  to 


A  Modern  Locusta  173 

see  for  myself  how  she  will  receive  my  news,  how  she  will 
face  the  fact  of  her  uncle's  engagement  ?  What  sort  of 
woman  is  she,  I  wonder  ?  Empty-headed,  from  what  I  hear, 
but  is  she  empty-hearted  as  well  ?  At  any  rate,  I  need  not 
tell  her  anything  until  I  see.  I  fortunately  have  a  leason 
ready  to  give  for  my  coming  here  to-day — that  I  have  seen 
her  advertisement,  and  have  come  to  recommend  her  a 
servant.  Then  if  she  is  a  gentle  good  woman,  we  will  see. 
yLooks  roundl\  A  nice  little  room  enough.  What  has  she 
been  reading  ?  The  '  World.'  \81iakf8  her  head^  Pei'haps 
she  is  not  a  prude,  then.  No,  she  may  be  all  the  same.  A 
baby's  toy  !  Ah,  that  should  mean  a  woman  with  a  gentle 
heart.     Here  she  is. 

[J/rs.    V.   comes  in  singing,  her  ualking  things  on. 
Slie  stops,  surprised  at  seeing  Mrs.  Merrinder. 

Mrs.  M.  I  hope  you  will  forgive  me,  Mrs.  Vernon. 
This  is  extremely  indiscreet  of  me,  I  feel — I  am  Mrs. 
Merrinder. 

Mrs.  V.  Oh  yes,  I  think  I  saw  you  the  other  evening 
at  Lixdy  Grey's. 

Mrs.  M.  At  Lady  Grey's  ?  Yes,  I  was  there.  I  saw 
your  advertisement  in  the  '  Times  '  yesterday,  and  I  thought 
you  would  allow  me  to  come  and  tell  you  of  a  nice  woman 
I  happen  to  know. 

Mrs.  V.  Ch,  thank  you.  Do  you  think  she  could  make 
Ridge's  Food  ? 

Mrs.  M.     Ridge's  Food  ? 

Mrs.  V.  Yes,  for  baby,  you  know,  one  has  to  be  so 
careful  to  boil  it  long  enough. 

Mrs.  M.     Oh  !    Yes,  I  dare  say  she  could. 

Mrs.  V.  I  think  on  the  whole  Ridge's  Food  is  the  best. 
What  did  you  feed  your  children  on  ? 

Jfrs.  M.     I  never  had  a  child. 

Mrs.  V.     Oh,  I  am  so  very  sorry   for  you.     I  think  it 


174  A  Modern  Locust  a 

must  be  terrible  not  to  have  a  baby  in  the  house — quite 
terrible. 

Mrs.  M.     Is  yours  a  great  delight  to  you  1 

Mrs.  V.  Indeed  he  is  :  he  is  the  greatest  darling  !  and 
he  is  such  an  intelligent  child. 

Mrs.  M.     Really  1    How  old  is  he  ? 

Mrs.  V.     Eight  months  to-morrow. 

Mrs.  M.  Eight  months  ?  that  is  very  early  to  show 
such  intelligence. 

Mrs.  V.  Isn't  it  ?  That  is  what  I  say.  It's  wonderful — 
quite  wonderful.  Just  imagine  what  he  does.  When  his 
father  comes  into  the  room  with  a  great  noise,  and  says 
'  Baby,  where 's  papa  V  he  looks  round  immediately.  Now 
I  call  that  quite  extraordinary,  don't  you  ? 

Mrs.  M.     Quite. 

Mrs.  V.  I'm  so  glad  you  agree  with  me.  Do  you 
know  I  told  that  story  to  one  of  my  husband's  cousins  the 
other  day,  and  she  didn't  see  anything  surprising  in  it  1 
Wasn't  it  funny  of  her  ? 

Mrs.  M.  Very.  One's  relations  are  very  trying  at 
times,  no  doubt. 

Mrs.  V.  They  are  indeed.  I  have  very  few,  I  am 
glad  to  say.  I  have  only,  let  me  see,  a  great-aunt  (in  the 
country,  so  she  doesn't  count),  and  that  cousin  of  my 
liusband's—  and  an  uncle  of  my  own,  but  he  is  worth  a  whole 
family  put  together. 

Mrs.  M.     Your  uncle  ? 

Mrs.  V.  My  uncle,  yes,  indeed.  But  you  know  him, 
I  think.     Surely  I  saw  you  with  him  the  other  evening  ? 

Mrs.  M.     Yes,  you  did.     I  know  him. 

Mrs.  V.     And  don't  you  think  him  very  charming  ? 

Mrs.  M.     Yes. 

Mrs.  V.     And  he  is  as  good  and  kind  as  he  is  delightful. 

Mrs.  M.     You  are  very  fortunate. 

Mrs.   V.     I  am.     I  can't  tell  you  what  he  has  been  to 


A  Modern  Locus ta  175 

me  My  parents  died  when  I  was  quite  a  child,  and  my 
uncle  has  been  father  and  mother  in  one  to  me.  Then, 
when  I  married,  he  quite  adopted  my  husband  too,  and 
now  I'm  sure  he  is  more  devoted  to  dear  baby  than  either 
of  us.  So  altogether,  we  are  the  happiest  family  in  the 
world. 

Mrs.  M.  You  are  indeed  fortunate.  It  isn't  every- 
one who  is  so  happy. 

Mrs.  V.  I  have  no  patience  with  people  who  are  not 
happy.     I  think  it  is  so  silly  of  them. 

Mrs.  M.  (aside).  There  is  nothing  so  merciless  as 
youth  and  prosperity  couibined.  (Aloud)  But  perhaps  it 
isn't  always  in  their  own  power. 

Mrs.  V.     Oh,  more  or  less,  I  think  it  is  ! 

Mrs.  M.     To  begin  with,  some  people  don't  marry. 

Mrs.  V.  Oh,  that  is  a  great  mistake.  I  think  every- 
one ought  to  marry. 

^frs.  21.     Everyone  1 

Mrs.  V.     Certainly,  if  they  want  to  be  happy. 

Mrs.  M.  In  that  case,  there  would  be  no  bachelor 
uncles. 

Mrs.  V.  I  shouldn't  like  my  uncle  Greville  to  marry, 
of  course. 

Mrs.  M.     Why  not  ? 

Mrs.  V.  I  should  feel  as  if  I  had  a  step-mother,  and  I 
shouldn't  like  that  at  all. 

Mrs.  M.  I  see  you  have  made  up  your  mind  to  the 
worst  already. 

Mrs.  V.  But  the  whole  thing  is  top  absurd  to  think  of. 
Of  course  he  will  never  marry. 

Mrs.  M.     Why  of  course  ? 

Mrs.  V.     For  one  thing,  he  is  too  fond  of  us. 

Mrs.  M.  Why  shouldn't  he  be  happy  because  he  is 
fond  of  you  ? 

Mrs,  V.     Oh,  it  isnt  a  question  of  his  happiness. 


1^6  A  Modern  Locusta 

Mrs.  M.     Not  if  he  were  to  marry  ? 

Mrs.  V.     He  won't. 

Mrs.  M.  Let  us  suppose  it  possible,  and  that  you  heard 
it  was  going  to  happen.  What  would  you  say,  what 
would  you  do,  I  wonder  ?     I  am  really  curious  to  know. 

Mrs.  V.     Oh,  I  think  first  of  all,  I  should  burst  into  tears. 

Mrs.  M.     Into  tears  ? 

Mrs.  V.  Yes,  I  am  sure  I  should.  I  should  sob,  and 
feel  that  I  had  lost  my  best  friend,  and  that  baby  wms 
going  to  be  slighted  and  neglected,  and  altogether  I  should 
be  very  wretched  indeed. 

Mrs.  M.  But  suppose  you  found  he  were  going  to 
marry  some  one  who  only  longed  to  make  friends  with  you  — 
M'ho  would  care  for  you  and  your  husband,  and  instead  of 
neglecting  your  boy,  would  love  him  too  1 

Mrs.  V.  That  would  be  delightful,  of  course,  but  it  is 
so  unlikely  to  happen.  So  very  few  people  would  be  as 
kind  as  you  were  just  now  about  dear  baby,  or  would 
understand  his  niind  so  well. 

Mrs.  M.     My  dear  child  ! 

Mrs.  V.     (surprised).     Mrs.  Merrinder  ! 

Mrs.  M.  I  should  like  to  care  for  you  and  yours  if 
you  will  let  me. 

Mrs.  V.  Let  you  ?  Why,  it  would  be  charming.  Do 
let  us  be  friends,  I  should  like  it  so  much. 

Mrs.  M.  (takes  her  hand).  If  you  knew  what  it  is  to 
me  to  have  a  warm,  womanly  hand  in  mine— to  feel  I  ain 
no  longer  alone  !  Do  you  really  mean  you  would  like  to 
be  friends  1 

Mrs.  V.  Indeed,  indeed  I  do,  from  the  very  bottom  of 
my  heart. 

Mrs.  M.  Then  let  me  tell  you  something  I  came  to 
say,  something  I  determined  you  should  only  hear  from  my 
own  lips,  that  I  might  read  in  your  face  what  your  tbnswer 
wus.     No,  now  it  comes  to  the  point,  I  am  afraid. 


A  Modern  Locnsta  177 

Mrs.  V.     What  is  it  ?     Wliat  can  you  mean  ? 

Mrs.  yf.  Can  you  not  guess?  When  I  tell  you  that  I 
have  the  right  to  ask  you  for  your  friendship,  your  love,  and 
to  offer  you  mine  ?     Now  do  you  know  ? 

Mrs.  V.  (shakes  her  head). 

Mrs.  M.  You  saw  me  with  your  uncle,  you  said,  two 
nights  ago. 

Mrs.  V.  (starting).  With  my  uncle?  Is  it  -no,  it  is 
not  possible  that 

Mrs.  M.  That  he  has  asked  me  to  marry  him  ?  Yes, 
he  has. 

Mrs.  Y.     To  marry  him — my  uncle  !     Oh  ! 

\Bursts  into  tears. 

Mrs.  M.  (aside).  There's  nothing  like  carrying  out 
one's  programme  !  (Aloud)  You  see,  your  worst  previsions 
are  realised.     I  fear  I  need  not  ask  what  your  answer  is. 

Mrs.  V.  Forgive  me — forgive  me  !  The  fact  is,  I  was 
so  taken  by  surprise,  that  I  hardly  knew  what  I  was  say- 
ing— but  you  will  not  take  his  love  from  us,  will  you  ? 

Mrs.  M.  No  indeed,  I  have  told  you  that  I  won't. 
{Meaningly)  You  do  not  wish,  then,  to  take  his  love  from 
me? 

Mrs.  V.     No,  no  !     How  can  you  think  so  ? 

Mrs.  M.  And  yet,  if  I  am  not  mistaken,  it  is  a  great 
blow  to  you  to  hear  of  his  engagement  ? 

Mrs.  V.  Yes,  of  course.  Then  when  I  found  it  was  to 
you,  that  was  different.        [J/r«.  M.  strokes  Mrs.  F.'s  Jiand. 

Mrs.  V.     I  hope  you  will  be  very  happy. 

Mrs.  M.  Don't  you  think  that  everyone  is  happier 
married  ? 

Mrs.  V.     It's  very  nice  to  be  married,  certainly. 

Mrs.  M.  Yes,  indeed  you  are  happy  !  You  look  as  if 
you  had  never  known  what  it  was  to  be  otherwise.  Is  that 
so? 

Mrs.  V.     Yes,  I  must  admit  that  I  have  always  been 

N 


1/8  A  Modern  Locusta 

very  happy,  and  now  I  am  more  so  than  ever  since  I  have 
had  dear  Vjaby. 

Mrs.  M.  (smiling).  And  in  consequence,  doubtless,  you 
haA'e  a  kind  of  feeling  that  when  others  are  not  so  happy, 
it  is  their  own  fault  for  losing  the  chances  that  life  has  to 
ttfler  them  % 

Mrs.  V.  (confused).  No,  no,  not  that  exactly.  I  am 
Sorry  for  them,     I  feel  pity,  compassion. 

Mrs.  M.  Pity,  compassion — yes,  I  know  what  that 
means.    The  shadow  cast  by  compassion  is  called — contempt ! 

Mrs.  V.  No,  no,  I  assure  you  I  should  like  everyone 
else  to  be  as  happy  as  myself,  if  it  were  possible. 

Mrs.  M.  If  it  were  possible,  yes,  but  you  hai-dly  feel 
that  it  is  ?  You  are  a  little  surprised  that  other  people 
should  fall  in  love,  and  wish  to  live  their  own  lives,  instead 
of  living  in  other  people's.     Is  not  that  so  1 

Mrs.  V.  Well,  of  course  one  doesn't  realise  that  other 
people  feel  the  same  as  one  does  oneself. 

Mrs.  M.  No,  I  have  noticed  that  it  appears  to  be 
difficult. 

Mrs.  V.  And  I  shall  soon  get  accustomed  to  the  idea 
of  my  uncle's  marrying.  In  fact,  only  this  morning,  just 
})efore  you  came,  I  was  thinking  how  strange  it  would  be 
if  he  married.  Something — a  paragraph — in  the  '  World  ' 
put  it  into  my  head. 

'       Mrs.  M.     A  paragraph  in  the  '  World  1 '     What   was 
that  ? 

Mrs.  V.  Here  it  is.  Haven't  you  seen  it  ?  About  an 
ehiinent  Q.C.'s  engagement. 

[Puts  paper  into  her  hand.     Reads  the  paragraph  aloud. 
Mrs.  M.     And  what  did  you  think  when  you  read  that 
paragraph  ? 

Mrs.  V.  I  thought  how  interested  my  uncle  would  ite 
when  he  saw  it— and  that  as  he  is  a  Q.C.  himself,  he  would 
probably  know  who  the  people  were. 


now  1 

Mrs. 

M. 

Mrs. 

V. 

Mrs. 

M. 

A  Modern  Locusta  1 79 

Mrs.  M.  Do  you  want  to  know  who  the  modern 
Locusta  is  ? 

Mrs.  V.  Yes,  I  should  like  to  know  who  she  is,  and 
what  she  did. 

Mrs.  M.     I  can  tell  you  what  she  did. 

Mrs.  V.     Can  you  ?     How  very  interesting.     Do  ! 

Mrs.  M.  She  ran  away  from  her  first  husband  with  a 
man  whom  she  afterwards  married,  and  then,  so  it  was 
said,  tried  to  poison. 

Mrs.   V.     Oh,   what  a  horrible  woman  !     Is  she  alive 

Yes,  I  believe  she  is. 
And  what  was  done  to  her  1 
Nothing — nothing,  that  is,  according  to  the 
law.     The  jury  disagreed  upon  their  verdict.     They  con- 
tented themselves  with  dismissing  her  into  the  world  with 
an  indelible  shadow  hanging  over  her  name. 

Mrs.  V.     And  she  deserved  it ! 

Mrs.  M.  You  think  she  did  ?  without  knowing  any- 
thing more  of  her  history,  any  of  the  grounds  of  her  defence, 
you  condemn  her  at  once  1 

Mrs.  V.  Well,  a  woman  who  i-uns  away  from  one 
husband,  and  poisons  another,  can't  be  a  nice  woman. 

Mrs.  M.  '  Nice  ' — perhaps  not  !  One  of  the  accusa- 
tions against  her,  that  of  trying  to  poison  her  lover,  I 
believe  to  have  been  false.  It's  true  she  ran  away  from 
the  first  one,  but  we  cannot  tell  on  whose  shoulders  rested 
the  responsibility  of  that  crime.  She  may  have  been  flying 
from  misery  greater  than  she  could  bear. 

Mrs.  V.  Oh  no.  A  woman  is  always  in  the  wrong 
who  runs  away  from  her  husband. 

Mrs.  M.  Ah.  that  is  your  hard  and  fast  code  !  That 
is  how  the  world  is  gOA'erned,  doubtless. 

Mrs.  V.     And  a  good  thing  too. 

Mrs.  M.     Oh,  how  merciless  you  happy  and  virtuous 

K  2 


l8o  A  Modern  Locust  a 

women  can  be  to  those  whom  you   think  not  so  good  as 
yourselves  ! 

Mrs.  V.  But  don't  you  think  that's  right  ?  That's 
how  we  help  to  keep  other  women  straight,  by  turning  our 
backs  on  them  when  they  behave  badly. 

3Irs.  M.  By  turning  your  backs  on  them — a  Chris- 
tian code  indeed  ! 

Mrs.  V.  I  feel  quite  sure  my  uncle  would  agree  with 
me.     He's  so  intensely  particular  about  women. 

Mrs.  M.  You  don't  think  he  would  have  a  wider 
tolerance  and  more  lenient  judgment  -  that  he  would 
readily  hold  out  his  hand  to  an  unfortunate  woman  against 
whom  fortune  has  set  her  face  1 

Mrs.  V.  Oh,  I  think  his  kind  heart  would  be  sorry  for 
her,  grieved  for  her — but  I  know  quite  well  how  very 
strong  his  views  about  women  are,  for  he  is  never  tired  of 
repeating  them. 

Jlrs.  M.     Indeed  ?  and  what  does  he  say  ? 

3Irs.  V.  Oh,  he  has  the  most  exaggerated  and  high- 
flown  sentiments.  My  husband  often  tells  him  that  he 
carries  it  a  great  deal  too  far.  He  would  ne^■er  have  a 
woman's  name  mentioned  at  all  outside  the  domestic  circle. 
Tlie  very  idea  of  criticism,  of  discussion,  by  those  who  are 
not  her  nearest  and  dearest,  is  repugnant  to  him. 

3frs.  M.     Repugnant  to  him  1 

Mrs.  V.  Yes,  in  fact  he  often  says,  partly  in  fun,  of 
course,  that  he  is  so  glad  that  I  am  never  likely  to  be 
famous — to  do  anything  clever,  you  know,  that  would  have 
made  people  talk  about  me.  He  wouldn't  have  liked  it 
at  all. 

Mrs.  M.  I  see.  (Aside)  That  must  be  a  delightful 
certainty. 

Mrs.  V.  Do  you  know  what  his  nickname  is^what  he 
is  called  among  his  friends  ? 

Mrs.  M.     No,  I  don't  indeed. 


A  Modern  Locusta  l8i 

Mrs.  V.  He  is  called  The  Guarantee,  because  people 
always  say,  '  Oh,  Mr.  Greville's  name  is  a  guarantee  for 
everything  ! '  For  justice  in  a  cause — for  honesty  in  a 
sei'vant — for  innocence  in  a  client 

Mrs.  M.     For  a  good  name  in  a  woman  ! 

Mrs.  V.  Exactly  !  so  that  you  see  that  to  be  his  niece 
is  a  very  great  privilege. 

Mrs.  M.     Still  more,  then,  I  imagine,  to  be  his  wife  ? 

Mrs.  V.  (starting).  His  wife  ! — yes  — of  course.  I  beg 
your  pardon — I  was  forgetting.  Some  people  grumble  at 
him  for  being  such  an  oldfashioned  Puritan,  but  I  think 
it's  a  good  thing. 

Mrs.  M.     Very  ! 

Mrs.  V.  For  it  is  horrid  for  a  woman  not  to  be  nice, 
isn't  it  1 

Mrs.  M.  (with  veiled  sarcasm).  Oh  yes.  A  woman,  of 
course,  must  be  'nice'  before  everything.  (Aside)  Oh,  to 
think  that  public  opinion  is  made  by  such  intelligences  as 
these  ! 

Mrs.  V.     You  do  agree  with  me,  don't  you  ? 

Mrs.  M.     Oh,  entirely,  of  course  ! 

Mrs.  V.  (relieved).  That's  right.  Do  you  know  I  was 
afraid  you  didn't — and  I  was  so  surprised,  knowing  so  well 
what  my  uncle's  opinions  are  ! 

Mrs.  M.  Your  uncle,  then,  would  not  have  l>een 
likely  to  marry  the  lady  who  is  known  as  the  Modern 
Locusta  ? 

Mrs.  V.  (in  fits  of  laughter).  My  uncle  !  Oh,  how  very 
funny  !  What  an  extraordinary  idea  !  Oh,  I  never  heard 
anything  so  funny.     I  shall  die  of  laughing — I  really  shall. 

Mrs.  M.     It  is  indeed  extraordinarily  amusing. 

Mrs.  V.  I  tell  you  what  is  making  me  laugh  now — the 
thought  of  what  immense  fun  it  would  be  to  pretend,  for 
a  joke,  that  I  thought  this  man  mentioned  in  the  '  World ' 
was  himself. 


1 82  A  Modern  Locus  fa 

Mrs.  M.     Or  to  pretend  that  it  really  was  he. 

Mrs.  V.     How  do  you  mean  ? 

Mrs.  M.     To  tell  him  that  /  am  the  Modern  Locusta. 

Mrs.  V.  (in  fits  of  laughter).  Oh,  the  idea  is  too  delicious, 
really  !     You  will  kill  me,  I  know  you  will. 

Mrs.  M.  I  dare  say  I  shall,  before  I  have  done  with 
it! 

Mrs.  V.  Now  I  tell  you  what  would  be  amusing.  Let's 
rehearse  what  we  should  say  when  we  told  him,  and  what 
he  would  say. 

Mrs.  M.     "What  he  would  say — yes  ! 

Mrs.  V.  I  should  begin,  '  Uncle,  you  are  going  to  be 
married  1 '  '  Yes,'  he  would  reply,  '  to  a  very  charming 
woman.'     '  I  know  it,'  I  should  say,  '  I  have  seen  her.' 

Mrs.  M.  (with  a  little  smile  of  acknowledgment).  Thank 
you.  But  go  on  :  you  have  not  yet  come  to  the  interesting 
part. 

Mrs.  V.  '  Ha,  ha,  uncle  ! '  I  should  say,  'I  know  some- 
thing about  her  that  you  don't.'  Then  he  would  be  sur- 
prised, wouldn't  he  ? 

Mrs.  M.     Undoubtedly. 

Mrs.  V.  '  Something  about  her  past  life.'  Then  he 
would  begin  to  be  startled  and  rather  anxious. 

Mrs.  M.     Startled — yes,  and  anxious  ! 

Mrs.  V.  '  Do  you  know  who  she  is  ? '  I  would  say.  Of 
course,  he  would  say  '  Yes,'  and  then  I'd  say,  '  But  do  you 
know  who  she  was  ? '     That's  my  great  point,  you  see. 

Mrs.  M.  Yes.  Who  she  was.  That's  an  important 
point,  certainly. 

Mrs.    V.      And    then Do  you   think  I  had  better 

prepare  him  more  1 

Mrs.  M.  (endeavouring  to  smile).  Oh  no,  I  should 
think  by  this  time  he  would  be  sufficiently  prepared.  I 
would  tell  him  at  once.  It  would  come  to  the  same  thing 
in  the  end,  I  fancy. 


A  Modern  Locust  a  1 83 

Mrs.  V.  Very  well.  Then  I  would  tell  him,  in  the 
words  of  that  paragraph,  in  the  most  tragical  tones,  'She 
was  a  lady  known  in  criminal  circles  as  the  Modern  Locusta ! ' 
Ha  !  ha  \     Now  wouldn't  that  be  good  ? 

Mrs,  M.  Excellent  !  But  now  what  does  he  say  ? 
That  seems  to  be  the  important  part. 

Mrs.  V.  First  he  turns  white,  as  white  as  a  sheet. 
Then  he  recovers  himself,  and  says.  '  You  are  laughing  at 
me.'     I  tell  him  I  know  it  for  a  fact. 

Mrs.  M.  By  the  way,  you  have  not  told  him  how  you 
are  supposed  to  know  it. 

Mrs.  V.     Oh,  I  know  it,  because  you've  told  me. 

Mrs.  M.  Ah,  because  I've  told  you.  Exactly.  Go  on. 
And  then  ? 

Mrs.  V.  Oh,  I  don't  know.  I  haven't  imagined  all 
that  yet.  Of  course  there  is  a  great  tragical  scene,  when  he 
finds  that,  as  they  say  in  books,  he  is  linked  to  the  vilest  of 
her  sex.  [Mrs.  M.  starts. 

Mrs.  V.  He  is  broken-hearted,  and  in  despair.  He 
struggles  between  his  love  and [Hesitates  for  a  word. 

Mrs  M.     And  his  honour. 

Mrs.  V.  And  his  honour — exactly.  And — and — but 
I  am  not  clever  enough  to  imagine  the  rest  of  it.  You 
must  go  on  now, 

Mrs.  M.  Perhaps  I  had  better  imagine  what  /  should 
be  saying  and  doing  in  the  meantime. 

Mrs.  V.     Ah  yes,  just  so.     What  would  you  be  saying  ? 

Mrs.  M.  I  would  say  to  you — What,  can  you,  a  woman, 
thus  lightly  brand  another  with  being  the  vilest  of  her  sex  ? 
Can  you  judge  her,  and  dismiss  her  to  everlasting  ignominy, 
without  another  thought — hardly  even  knowing  of  what  she 
is  accused  1 

Mrs.  V.  (interrupting).  '  No,  no,'  I  should  say.  '  I  do 
know  that  she  ran  away  from  one  man,  and  poisoned 
another ' 


184  A  Modern  Locusta 

Mrs.  M.  You  know  that  was  what  people  said  — l-ut 
what  if  it  were  not  true  1  What  if  the  woman  you  are 
]'eady  to  destroy  were  far  from  being  the  vilest  of  her  sex  ? 
— with  a  heart  beating  to  passions  such  as  you  cannot  even 
understand — with  a  mind  tuned  to  emotions  that  you  can- 
not reach — what  if  she  were  persecuted,  ruined,  hy  the 
villain  who  at  last  drove  her  from  his  house,  and  were 
afterwards  falsely  accused  of  having  caused  the  death  of 
the  one  being  whojn  she  cared  for  on  this  earth — what  then  ? 

Mrs.  V.     Oh,  go  on.     You  do  act  splendidly  ! 

Mrs.  M.  (recovering  herself).  Ah  — yes  ~I  do— act 
splendidly  !    Now  it's  your  turn. 

Mrs.  V.  What  a  pity  !  You  do  it  so  much  better. 
Then  we  would  say — my  uncle  and  I,  you  know 

Mrs.  M.     Your  uncle  and  you — yes. 

Mrs.  V.  Then  we  should  say,  of  course,  that  it  was 
impossible,  that  a  woman  who  could  have  those  things  said 
about  her,  whether  they  were  true  or  not,  could  never  be  a 
fitting  wife  for  him,  that  the  whole  thing  was  a  terrible 
misfortune,  and — and — that  would  be  the  end  of  it,  I 
suppose. 

Mrs.  M.  The  end  of  it  ?  No,  that  would  not  be  the 
end  of  it.  I  would  still  plead  her  cause.  Suppose,  I 
would  say,  that  this  woman,  whom  you  spurn  from  you 
with  such  ruthless  cruelty,  whose  youth  was  wrecked  by  an 
unpitying  fate,  suppose  that  she  at  last  conquered  in  the 
struggle  with  destiny,  and  that  she  has  since  led  a  pure  and 
stainless  life,  far  from  the  world  which  has  now  forgotten 
even  her  name — what  then  ?  May  she  never  again  take  her 
place  among  her  kind  ?  May  she  never  stand  M'ith  head 
erect  among  her  sister  women  1 

Mrs.  V.  Oh,  but  my  uncle  couldn't  bear  a  woman  who 
had  been  talked  about.  The  woman  who  has  had  those 
things  said  about  her  couldn't  be  a  nice  woman,  you  know. 

Mrs.  M.     A  nice  woman — ah  !    Your  uncompromising 


A  Modern  Locusta  185 

pettiness  passes  the  bounds  of  my  endurance.  What  can  a 
nature  like  yours  have  ever  known  of  passion,  misfortune, 
of  repentance  of  anything  which  throbs  in  the  life  of  a 
great  heart  ?  You,  who  would  father  your  imbecility  upon 
one  of  the  noblest  of  men  —pretending  that  you  fulfil  his 
ideal  !  His  ideal  indeed  !  You  must  well  nigh  have 
destroyed  it,  by  cramping  all  his  nobler  impulses — bounding 
his  larger  views  with  your  miserable  horizon— binding  him 
with  the  petty  chains  of  a  sleek  and  canting  domesticity  ! 
oh,  that  it  should  be  you,  and  such  as  you,  who  are  the 
arbiters  of  such  as  I  am  !  Good  God  ! 

Mrs.  V.  Mrs.  Merrinder,  you  frighten  me  !  you  say 
all  that  as  if  it  were  true. 

Mrs.  M.  It  is  true  !  \Mrs.  V.  starts — Mrs.  M.  stopn 
her  with  a  gesture.^  Listen  to  me  !  If  you  have  been  capable 
of  understanding  one  word  of  what  I  have  been  saying,  listen 
to  me  now,  while  I  tell  you  it  is  true — that  it  is  my  own 
cause  that  I  have  been  pleading — that  I — I,  do  you  hear  — 
am  the  woman  who  was  driven  from  her  home — that  it  was 
I  who  sought  shelter  with  the  man  of  whose  death  I  was 
accused,  but  of  which,  as  I  stand  in  sight  of  Heaven,  I  am 
innocent  ! 

Mrs.  V.     You— you  ! 

Mrs.  M.  Ah,  shrink  from  me  as  much  as  you  like — you 
need  not  fear  that  I  shall  draw  near  you  again.  My  dream 
is  over.  Fool  that  I  was  to  have  cherished  it,  even  for  a 
moment  ! — to  have  dreamt  that  after  a  life  of  loneliness  and 
regret  I  might  yet  become  the  wife  of  a  good  man,  and  be 
welcomed  to  share  the  lives  of  happy  women  !  fool  indeed  I 
I  see  now  to  what  I  am  doomed.  You  need  no  longer  fear 
that  my  shadow  will  fall  across  your  spotless  life.  No,  T 
renounce  my  last  chance  of  happiness.  I  will  not  condemn 
the  man  I  love  to  be  the  guarantee  for  my  good  name.  Do 
not  fear  that  you  will  ever  see  me  again.  [Goes  toivarrh 
cloor.^    I  have  humbled  myself  in  the  dust  before  you,  it  is 


1 86  A  Modern  Locus ta 

true,  in  one  moment  of  delusive  hope,  but  I  could  not,  T 
know  it  now,  pass  my  life  in  ashes  before  you,  in  one  long 
expiation — expiation  of  what  ?  Of  the  chance —the  luck — 
the  fate  that  gave  you  happiness,  and  me  \Standing  in  door- 
way] ....  misery  !  \^Exit. 
Mrs.  V.  buries  her  face  in  her  hands. 

Curtain, 


i87 


THE   'SWISS   TIMES' 

COMEDIETTA     IN    ONE    ACT. 

CHARACTERS. 

Mes.  Gordon,  a  rich  widow. 

Mrs.  Jackson. 

Mrs.  Prout. 

Carrie,  Mrs.  .Jackson's  daughter. 

Alethea,  Mrs.  Proufs  daughter. 

Helen  May.ne,  an  orphan. 

Scene. — The  Hotel  du  Lac,  Zurich.  The  public  sitting-room. 
Upright  jnano,  R.  Ditto,  L.  Small  table  at  back  L.C. 
Chair  by  it.    Table  in  front  R.C.  Couch,  L.  Chairs,  dec. 

Enter  Mrs.  Gordon  with  books,  vork,  &c. 

Mrs.  G.  No  one  here — how  deliglitful  to  find  a  public 
sitting-room  at  an  hotel  unoccupied  !  But  it  is  too  good  to 
last,  I  fear,  for  in  a  ffcw  minutes  all  the  r&st  of  the  inhabi- 
tants will  come  in  from  the  long,  hot  table  d'hdte,  and  fill 
the  room  with  their  meaningless  talk.  \^Looks  at  watch.^ 
Seven  thirty,  and  the  post  goes  out  at  eight !  I  must  finish 
my  letters.  I'll  just  read  over  this  letter  to  see  if  I've  left 
out  any  words — I  usually  do  !  \^Reads\  '  Thursday,  July  20, 
Hotel  du  Lac,  Zurich.  Dearest  Susan — I  wish  you  were 
here  — for  it  is  so  dull  being  at  an  hotel  by  oneself  !  Where 
is  the  enjoyment  of  meeting  ridiculous  people  if  you  have 
no  one  to  whom  you  can  say  how  ridiculous  they  are  ? 
Never  mind,  in  a  few  days  I  shall  have  a  companion,  I 


1 88  TJie  '  Siviss  Times  ' 

hope,  for  what  do  you  think  ?  I  have  advertised  for  one  ! 
in  the  "  Sw'iss  Times  "  !  I  dare  say  you  have  never  heard  of 
that  periodical — it  is  an  English  paper  published  at  Berne 
for  the  use  of  tourists.  This  is  what  1  liave  said:  "Wanted, 
for  a  tour  on  the  Continent,  a  young  lady  as  companion, 
age  between  twenty  and  twenty-five.  Must  be  bright, 
intelligent,  a  good  linguist,  and  a  good  musician.  Apply 
personally  at  the  Schweizerhof,  Lucerne,  on  Saturday,  July 
the  22nd."  Don't  you  think  that  sounds  attractive  1  There 
must  be  many  a  young  woman  who  would  be  too  delighted 
to  come  for  a  tour  round  Europe.  The  only  thing  is  that  I 
must  find  exactly  the  right  person.  As  you  know,  I  unfor- 
tunately have  a  great  many  fads  and  fancies— I  should  like 
my  companion  to  have  some  too,  provided  they  chime  in 
with  mine.  For  instance,  I  should  hate  some  one  who  would 
borrow  my  scissors,  or  lend  me  her  thimble,  or  cut  my 
magazines,  or  wander  about  the  room  with  a  distracted  air 
1  joking  for  something  when  I  am  talking,  or  read  me  scraps 
of  news  out  of  a  paper,  or  tell  me  the  end  of  a  book  I  am 
panting  over — or  on  the  other  hand,  I  should  hate  her  just 
as  much  it"  she  jumped  up  from  her  chair  and  offered  it  to 
me  'vhen  I  came  into  the  room,  instead  of  leaving  me  a  cool 
unrumpled  seat,  or  who  would  give  me  up  her  footstool,  and 
generally  lead  a  life  of  outward  and  visible  mortification  of 
which  I  should  feel  with  impotent  rage  that  I  was  the  in- 
voluntary cause  !  Oh,  if  I  were  Ibsen,  and  had  to  regene- 
rate society,  I  would  quickly  write  a  companion  play  to  the 
"  Pillars  of  Society  "  and  call  it  the  "Caterpillars  of  Society," 
in  which  I  would  hold  up  to  ignominy  and  I'eprobation  all 
those  who  insist  on  creeping  through  life  and  being  down- 
trodden by  their  fellow  creatures  !  No,  my  ideal  companion 
(may  Fate  send  her  to  Lucerne  on  Saturday  !)  is  a  quiet, 
simple,  yet  dignified  young  girl,  cultivated  and  intelligent, 
who  is  always  pleasantly  occupied,  who  can  knit  and  who 
can  read,  and  who  is  equally  happy  doing  either  or  both. 


1  he  '  Szc'zss  Times  '  1 89 

and  above  all  who  cannot  only  play  patiences,  but  who 
likes  doing  them  on  her  own  account  instead  of  mine  I  There 
now,  dear  Susan,  that  is  the  person  I  want — if  you  know 
of  such  a  one,  telegraph,  and  I  will  rush  rapidly  across 
Europe  to  find  her.  Ever  your  affectionate  friend,  Jane 
Gordon.  P.S.  Harry  writes  to  me  from  India  that  his 
love  affair  is  off,  T  am  grieved  to  say.  I  am  dreadfully 
sorry — I  had  had  visions  of  all  that  a  daughter-in-law 
might  be  to  me — and  yet  wlien  I  reflect  how  impossible  it 
would  be  that  my  son  should  ever  find  anyone  approaching 
to  good  enough  for  him,  the  thought  of  his  marriage  makes 
me  anxious.'  \Fastens  letter.^  There,  now,  that  is  dor.e. 
And  now,  to  write  to  Harry — I  really  don't  know  what  to 
say  — where  is  his  letter?  [Feads  his  letter  to  /ler.l^  'As  to 
what  I  told  you  of  in  my  last  letter,  dear  mother,  it  has 
come  to  an  untimely  end,  for  the  moment  at  least.  She 
has  left — gone  back  to  Europe.  She  has  been  very  badly 
treated  by  the  people  she  is  with,  but  it  is  no  use  saying 
anything  more  about  it  now.  Next  year  I  shall  go  on 
leave,  and  then — we  shall  see.'  Well,  I  don't  understand  all 
this.  I  must  wait  till  he  comes,  I  suppose — dear  boy  !  I 
shall  be  glad  to  see  him  !  and  then  he  will  show  me  that 
wonderful  patience  again,  the  '  Mystery  of  the  Skies,'  that 
no  one  can  do  but  himself.  I  have  forgotten  how  to  do  the 
beginning  of  it.  [Voices  heard  outside.]  Dear  me,  what  a 
bore !  I  hope  a  crowd  of  horrid  English  people  won't  come 
in  here — people  who  take  away  the  newspapers,  and  move 
the  ink,  and  play  the  piano,  and  monopolise  the  lamp,  and 
altogether  make  life  unbearable  while  they  are  in  the  room. 

l^Sits  a?id  writes  at  table. 

Enter  Mrs.  JacJcson  and  Mrs.  Front  talking. 

Mrs.  J.  My  dear  Mrs.  Prout,  how  you  can  say  that  the 
cooking  is  good  here,  I  don't  know.  Why  we've  had  veal 
cutlets  and  salad  every  day  for  a  week  ! 


1 90  The  '  Szviss  Times  ' 

Mrn.  P.  Perhaps,  yes — but  tliey  are  very  well  cooked, 
and  quite  tempting  to  my  poor  appetite. 

Mrs.  J.  I  didn't  know  raw  salad  with  garden  mould  in 
it  was  considered  a  good  diet  for  invalids. 

Mrs.  P.     And  I  quite  enjoyed  the  stewed  fruit. 

Mrs.  J.  Ah,  if  you  like  the  sauce  thickened  with  glue, 
I  don't  wonder  you  did. 

Mrs.  P.  Oh,  I  think  you  are  mistaken,  really — I  must 
have  noticed  if  anything  had  heen  wrong.  I  am  obliged  to 
give  a  great  deal  of  attention  to  these  things — I  am  not 
really  equal  to  travelling  and  knocking  about. 

Mrs.  J.  I  see.  (Aside)  Such  humbug  !  the  woman  is 
as  strong  as  she  can  be  !  it  is  only  that  she  is  so  greedy,  she 
thinks  of  nothing  else  but  her  food. 

[Mrs.  Prouthas  walked  to  the  'windotu  and  is  lookiwj 
out. 

Mrs.  P.  I  wonder  where  those  dear  girls  of  ours  are  'I 
I  do  hope  Alethea  will  not  go  .on  to  the  grass  with  thin 
shoes. 

Mrs.  J.     Does  she  catch  cold  easily  1 

Mrs.  P.  Oh,  she  is  the  frailest  of  creatures,  though 
perhaps  she  doesn't  look  it.  She  is  all  intellect,  all  mind — 
no  body  at  all,  so  to  speak. 

Mrs.  J.  (aside).     No  wonder  her  dresses  fit  so  badly. 

Mrs.  P.  It  is  really  for  her  sake  I  am  travelling — she 
is  so  anxious  to  complete  her  education  by  going  to  Rome. 
She  has  been  at  Girton  for  two  years. 

Mrs.  G.  (aside).  They  have  each  got  a  daughter.  T 
wonder  if  either  of  them  would  do  for  me  ! 

Mrs.  J.  (coming  up  to  the  table  where  Mrs.  Gordon  is 
reading  the  '  Swiss  Times  ').     Oh,  I  beg  your  pardon  .  .   . 

Mrs.  P.  (turning  round  and  laying  down  the  paper). 
Were  jou  speaking  to  me  1 

Mrs.  J.  (pouncing  on  paper).     Oh,  thank  you,  yes.     I 


The  '  Swiss  Times '  191 

was  only  going  to  say  had  you  seen  the   '  Swiss  Times  '  % 
This  is  it,  tliank  you. 

[Draws  lamjy  towards  her  and  sits  down  to  read. 

Mrs.  G.  (aside).  I  do  think  that  is  the  very  rudest 
woman  I  have  ever  seen  ! 

Mrs.  P.  (coming  up  to  table).  Oh,  I  beg  your  pardon, 
I  think  I  saw  the  ink  there  — yes. 

\Takes  away  ink,  pens  and  blotting -paper  from  before 
Mrs.  G.,  retires  to  the  other  table,  at  back,  L.C. 

Mrs.  G.     No,  I  think  on  the  whole  that  is  the  rudest. 

Mrs.  J.  (who  has  been  reading  paper,  gives  a  shriek). 
Oh,  I  wonder  where  Carrie  is  !  Here  is  exactly  the  thing 
she  wants.     (To  Mrs.  P.)  Just  listen  to  this. 

\Mrs.  Jackson  stands  by  Mrs.  Front's  table  and  reads 
to  her  Mrs.  Gordon's  advertisement. 

Mrs.  P.  (excited).     The  very  thing,  of  course. 

Mrs.  J.  (pleased).  Exactly.  I  see  it  strikes  you  as  it 
does  me.     It  is  the  very  thing  for 

Mrs.  P.     Alethea. 

Mrs.  J.  (taken  aback).  For  Alethea  1  No — I  meant 
for  Carrie. 

Mrs.  P.     For  Cairie — for  your  daughter  ? 

Mrs.  J.  And  why  not  for  my  daughter,  as  well  as 
for  yours  ?     May  I  ask  1 

Mrs.  P.  Firstly,  because  it  says  she  must  be  intelligent. 
That  seems  to  apply  more  to  Alethea. 

Mrs.  J.     Yes — but  it  doesn't  say  she  is  to  be  pedantic. 

Mrs.  P.  (outraged).     Pedantic  1 

Mrs.  J.  Yes — pedantic.  That  is  what  I  should  say  the 
characteristic  of  your  daughter  is. 

Mrs.  P.  1  suppose  that  is  because  she  doesn't  dance 
breakdowns  in  the  public  room  of  the  hotel  like  Miss 
Jackson. 

Mrs.   J.     Breakdowns   indeed  ?     Carrie  <>anced  a  reel 


1 92  TJie  '  Siuiss  Times  ' 

the  other  night,  if  that  is  what  you  mean.  And  very  well 
she  did  it.     I  like  a  girl  to  be  lively. 

Mrs.  P.     Lively,  yes,  but  not  acrobatic. 

Mrs.  J.  (aside).  It's  quite  evident  her  girl  can't  dance 
a  step — those  girls  never  can.  (Aloud)  I  see  that  candi- 
dates are  requested  to  apply  at  Lucerne.  Curiously  enough, 
we  had  arranged  to  be  at  Lucerne  on  Saturday. 

Mrs.  P.  Indeed  1  It  is  singular  that  we  should  have 
settled  to  do  the  same  thing. 

Mrs.  J.  Oh,  really  !  We  shall  meet  there  then,  that 
will  be  very  agreeable. 

Mrs.  P.     Particularly  so. 

Mrs.  J.  (lays  the  paper  down).  I  wonder  where  Carrie 
is! 

Mrs.  P.  I  do  wish  Alethea  wouldn't  remain  out  so 
long. 

Mrs.  G.  If  you  have  done  with  the  paper,  may  I  have 
it  for  a  few  minutes  ?     I  had  not  quite  finished  reading  it. 

Mrs.  J.  Oh,  certainly,  certainly.  It  is  very  dull  : 
there  is  nothing  in  it. 

Afrs.  G.  (aside).  That  is  what  people  always  say  wlien 
they  hand  you  a  paper  they  have  read  from  the  first  word 
to  the  last. 

Mrs.  J.  There  is  one  thing  very  interesting  in  it,  to 
me,  at  least — an  advertisement  for  a  companion — there, 
on  the  third  page. 

Mrs.  G.     Yes.     I  have  seen  it. 

Mrs.  J.  (confidentially).  I  thought  that  would  do  so 
well  for  my  daughter. 

Mrs.  G.  Indeed — does  your  daughter  wish  to  be  a 
companion  ? 

Mrs.  J.  Well,  I  don't  know  that  she  wishes  it  parti- 
cularly, but  it  seems  to  me  to  be  the  only  thing  for  her  to 
do.  I  thought  she  would  have  been  married  before  this. 
We  were  at  Southsea  last  year,  and  she  had  the  greatest 


The  '  Szvi'ss  Tzmes  '  193 

success  with  the  officers  there,  but  somehow  she  is  still  at 
home.     And  now  Pa  says 

Mrs.  G.     Who  ? 

Mrs.  J.  Pa — that's  my  husband,  you  know.  He  says 
that  with  the  four  other  girls  we  have  growing  up,  and 
two  boys  to  provide  for,  he  can't  afford  to  keep  them  all, 
and  that  Carrie  must  provide  for  herself  in  some  way, 
either  by  teaching  or  by  going  out  as  a  companion.  Now 
as  to  teaching,  I'm  not  sure  that  she  has  the  patience  for 
it  :  and  though  she  is  as  clever  as  she  can  be,  perhaps  her 
cleverness  is  not  quite  in  that  line — it  is  more  the  kind  of 
cleverness  that  can — that  can 

Mrs.  G.     Amuse  officers  at  Southsea, 

Mrs.  J.  Exactly.  Now  this  is  the  sort  of  thing  that 
would  suit  her  excellently.  For  she  is  certainly  bright 
and  intelligent. 

Mrs.  G.     Is  she  good-tempered  1 

Mrs.  J.  Yes,  I  think  so.  With  strangers,  certainly, 
she  would  be  good-tempered  enough,  and  she  picks  up  all 
the  new  songs,  and  sings  them  with  quite  a  dash.  Oh,  she 
would  be  an  acquisition  anywhere,  I'm  sure.  Ah,  there 
she  is  passing  the  window,  I  must  go  and  talk  to  her 
about  it.  \^Exit  quickly. 

Mrs.  G.  (shaking  her  head).  No.  I  am  afraid  that  is 
hardly  my  ideal ! 

J/rs.  F.  (advancing  confidentially).  Did  I  hear  Mrs. 
Jackson  talking  to  you  about  her  daughter  1  1  thought  so. 
You  know  I  can't  help  thinking  she  is  making  the  very 
greatest  mistake  in  wanting  her  to  apply  for  that  post  of 
companion  which  is  advertised  in  the  '  Swiss  Times.'  Y<ju 
see,  it  isn't  as  if  the  girl  were  like  mine,  or  even  like  that 
little  Miss  Mayne,  though  she  is  commonplace  enough — 
the  person  whom  it  would  suit  exactly  is  my  Alethea. 

Mrs.  G.     Does  your  daughter  wish  to  be  a  companion  1 

Mrs.  F.     I  won  t  siiy  that  exactly,  but  she  particularly 

o 


1 94  TJie  '  Szv/ss  Times ' 

wants  to  travel,  and  I  really  have  not  the  strength  nor 
the  means  to  take  her.  I  was  ill  for  a  week,  I  really  was, 
after  we  spent  a  day  at  the  Palace  of  the  Caesars  in  Rome. 
It  is  all  very  interesting,  I  dare  say,  but  we  were  not 
taught  about  those  things  when  I  was  a  girl,  I  don't 
know  the  difference  between  one  Caesar  and  another,  and  I 
don't  want  to  know  which  of  the  Seven  Hills  we  were 
walking  upon.  I  could  see  it  was  the  steepest  and  the 
muddiest,  and  that  was  enough  for  me.  However,  I  am 
told  they  are  levelling  all  the  hills  in  Rome  now,  so  that 
will  make  it  less  tiring  both  to  the  mind  and  to  the  body. 
But  what  would  suit  me  would  be  a  quiet  country  life 
in  England,  near  the  village  of  which  my  dear  husband 
used  to  be  rector,  and  if  I  felt  that  Alethea  could  find 
some  one  to  travel  with,  who  would  know  all  about  the 
Caesars  and  that  sort  of  thing,  it  would  be  a  great  comfort 
to  me. 

Mrs.  G.     I  see. 

Mrs.  P.  So  we  shall  try  to  make  an  early  start  for 
Lucerne  early  in  the  day — that  is,  if  I  have  had  a  good 
night,  but  I  am  such  a  wretched  sleeper  !  Then  we  shall  be 
beforehand  with  other  people. 

Mrs.  G.  Yes,  I  dare  say  that  would  be  a  good  plan. 
Then  what  about  that  other  girl  you  mentioned — Miss 
Mayne  ?  Will  she  be  one  of  the  competitors  too  for  this 
post  1 

Mrs.  P.  Oh,  well,  if  she  is,  she  won't  be  a  formidable 
one. 

Mrs.  G.  Will  she  not  1  I  always  thinks  she  looks 
interesting.     She  is  certainly  very  pretty. 

Mrs.  P.  Pretty  ?  Well,  if  you  call  having  regular 
features,  pretty — it  is  intensity  of  expression  I  look  for, 
more  like  Alethea's,  you  know. 

3Trs.  G.  I  haven't  had  the  pleasure  of  seeing  your 
daughter  yet. 


The  '  Swiss  Times'  195 

Mrs.  P.  Ah,  then,  that  is  why  you  think  Miss  Mayne 
pretty.  As  for  her  being  interesting,  I  should  have 
thought  her  the  dullest  little  person  :  she  is  always  knit- 
ting, or  reading,  or  something  of  that  kind.  And  she  does 
patiences  by  herself  in  the  evening  :  so  unlike  a  girl,  I  call 
that! 

3frs.  G.  (aside).  Knitting,  and  reading,  and  doing 
patiences  !     I  like  the  sound  of  that. 

Mrs.  P.  Here  she  is,  coming  in.  Pretty  and  interest- 
ing indeed  ! 


Enter  Helen,  her  knitting  and  a  hook  in  her  hand. 
She  strolls  to  table,  looks  at  books,  &c.  Mrs.  Prout 
goes  back  to  loriting. 

Mrs.  G.  (watching  Helen).  Were  you  looking  for  this 
paper  1  [IJanding  the  '  Swiss  Times.' 

Helen  (pleasantly).  Oh,  thank  you  very  much — that  is, 
if  you  don't  want  it. 

Mrs.  G.     Not  at  all.  [Helen  reads  fapt.r, 

Helen  (smiling).  I  think  I  am  taking  all  the  lamp- 
light. [Pushes  lamp  touards  Mrs.  G. 

Mrs.  P.  Tirescme  woman  to  go  and  give  her  that 
paper  to  read  !  she  will  be  packing  up  and  going  to  Lucerne 
too. 

Helen  (suddenly  interested).  I  wonder  if  this  is  any- 
one's paper,  or  if  it  belongs  to  the  hotel  1 

Mrs.  G.     It  belongs  to  the  hotel,  I  think.     Why  ? 

Helen.  Only  that  there  is  something  here  that  I  should 
have  liked  to  cut  out — an  advertisement.  But  it  doesn't 
matter,  I  will  copy  it. 

[Goes  to  table  at  hack.  Mrs.  Gordon  looks  on  and 
smiles  aside,  as  Helen  copies  the  advertisement. 

02 


19^  The  '  Siviss  Times  ' 

Enter  Mrs.  Jackson  and  Carrie. 

Carrie.  Really,  mother,  it  is  a  shame  to  bring  me  in 
on  this  fine  evening,  just  when  we  were  having  such  fun 
out  of  doors. 

Mrs.  J.  I  wanted  to  speak  to  you.  Besides  it  is 
much  better  that  you  should  sit  in  here  with  me,  rather 
than  be  running  about  the  garden  with  a  crowd  of 
strangers. 

Carrie.  It  wasn't  with  a  crowd,  mamma,  I  assure  you, 
only  one  person— Monsieur  Barette,  that  young  Frenchman 
who  sat  opposite  us  at  the  table  d'h6te.  I  was  teaching 
him  how  to  hop. 

Mrs.  J.  How  to  hop  !  my  dear  !  I  really  think  that 
that  is  a  thing  which  girls  need  not  teach  young  gentlemen 
to  do. 

Carrie.  Why  not,  mamma  ?  we  can  do  it  so  much 
better  than  they  can  !  you  see  the  mistake  most  people 
make  when  they  hop  is  that  they  hang  their  spare  foot  out 
behind,  and  then  rock  their  shoulders  about,  so.  [I/oj)S 
raund.^  The  real  way  to  do  it  is  to  put  your  foot  out  in' 
front,  and  go  round  lightly  like  this — then  you  are  like  a 
bird.  [Hops. 

Mrs.  J.  Like  a  bird,  indeed !  The  bird  you  are  like  is 
a  goose  !  hopping  about,  neglecting  your  most  important 
interests  ! 

Carrie.  Important  interests  1  I  didn't  know  I  had 
any. 

Mrs.  J.  But  you  have  though.  There  is  a  place  of 
companion  which  is  waiting  for  you,  if  you  choose  to  take 
it. 

Carrie.  Do  you  really  mean  it  ?  Where  1  Anything 
should  like  1 

Mrs.  jT.  I  should  say  you  would  like  it  extremely.  It 
is  an  a^yertisement  in  the  'Swiss  Times.'    Hei-e  it  is.     Oh, 


The  '  Szuz'ss  Times  '  197 

I  beg  your  pardon,  you  were  not  reading  this  paper,  were 
you  ?  \Takin()  the  paper  out  of  Helen's  hand. 

Helen.     Oh  dear  no  ! 

Mrs.  J.  (reading  advertisement  to  Carrie).  There, 
you  see,  that  is  just  what  you  want.  It  will  suit  you 
exactly. 

Carrie.  Yes.  It  would  suit  me  exactly,  I  dare  say — 
the  question  is,  whether  I  shall  suit  the  advertiser  exactly. 

Mrs.  J.  Why  shouldn't  you  1  You  are  bright,  intelli- 
gent, between  twenty  and  twenty- five — — 

Carrie.     Oh  yes,  I'm  all  that.     Now  go  on. 

Mrs.  J.     You  are  a  good  linguist. 

Carrie.  A  good  linguist  !  My  dearest  mother,  pray 
draw  it  mild  ! 

Mrs.  J.  Carrie  !  How  often  must  I  beg  you  not  to 
use  those  slang  expressions  !  Nobody  will  want  you  as  a 
companion  if  you  talk  like  that. 

Carrie.  Except  M.  Barette — he  wants  me  dreadfully  ! 
I  see  the  poor  thing  panting  with  impatience  in  the  garden 
at  this  minute. 

Mrs.  J.  Now  just  oblige  me  by  listening  to  me  a  minute. 
Do  you  mean  to  tell  me  you  are  not  a  good  linguist  ?  Why, 
what  was  the  good  of  your  going  to  Madame  Blancbec's  at 
.Fontainebleau  for  three  months  1 

Carrie.  Madame  Blancbec's  was  an  exemplary  establish- 
ment certainly — the  only  drawback  to  it  was  that  we  learnt 
no  French. 

Mrs.  J.  But  why  was  I  never  told  this  before  ?  ^^  hy 
in  that  case  did  all  our  neighbours  at  Croydon  send  their 
daughters  to  the  same  place  ? 

Carrie.  That  was  always  a  mystery  to  me.  We  used 
to  talk  French  to  each  other,  certainly,  but  it  seemed  to  me 
that  to  send  several  English  girls  abroad  to  learn  French 
from  one  another  was  rather  like  the  inhabitants  of  the 
Scilly  Isles  taking  in  each  other's  washing. 


198  The  '  Swiss  Times  ' 

Mrs.  J.  I  must  say  I  never  heard  anything  like  that  ! 
I  am  sure  Pa  will  be  furious  when  I  tell  him. 

Carrie.     Then  don't  tell  him,  dear  motlier. 

Mrs.  J.  There's  Mabel  Price,  who  only  went  to  Berlin 
for  two  months,  and  she  has  spoken  with  a  German  accent 
es^er  since.  That  is  the  sort  of  thing  Pa  would  have  liked, 
and  it  shows  at  once  that  a  girl  has  been  abroad. 

Carrie.  Dear  mother,  I'm  very  sorry — you  should  have 
s'^nt  me  to  the  same  place.  Perhaps  the  French  accent  is 
not  so  adhesive. 

Mrs.  J.  Well,  now  about  the  music.  Do  you  think 
you  are  a  good  musician  % 

Carrie.  Yes,  I  should  have  thought  so.  What  do  you 
suppose  they  mean  by  a  good  musician  % 

Mrs.  J.  I  should  think  some  one  who  could  play  in  the 
evening  when  people  are  talking,  or  sing  a  bright  little 
song  after  dinner,  Milton  Wellings  or  some  one  of  that 
sort. 

Carrie.     Oh  yes,  I  could  quite  well  do  that. 

Mrs.  J.  There  now,  you  see  the  whole  thing  would  suit 
you  exactly. 

Enter  Mrs.  Prout  and  Alethea.    Alethea  in  an  cesthetic 
gown  carrying  several  large  hooks. 

Mrs.  P.  (with  paper  open  in  hand).  Now  don't  you 
agree  with  me,  darling,  that  it  is  exactly  the  thing  for  you  ? 

Aleth.  Well,  of  course,  the  question  would  have  to  be 
considered.  I  don't  know  enough  about  it  yet  to  give  an 
opinion. 

Mrs.  P.  No,  no,  of  course  not,  my  dear.  But  it 
would  be  such  an  opportunity  for  you  to  see  the  world, 
wouldn't  it  ? 

Aleth.  No  doubt  that  qud  social  opportunity  it  might 
be  a  good  one — qud  opportunity  for  self-improvement  it 
is  more  doubtful. 


TJie  ^  Siviss  Times  ^ ,  199 

Mrs.  J.  (to  Carrie).  You  see,  we  could  leave  here  at 
eleven  thirty  on  Saturday. 

Carrie.  Yes,  and  I  could  travel  in  my  fawn  colour  to 
look  decent  when  we  arrived. 

Mrs.  P.  All  that  is  wanted  you  could  do  so  well  !  you 
are  bright  and  intelligent 

Aleth.     Yes,  doubtless. 

Mrs.  P.     You  are  a  good  linguist 

A  leth.  I  should  like  to  know  more  accurately  what  is 
meant  by  a  good  linguist.  If  it  means  to  chatter  French 
slang  more  or  less  fast,  that  is  one  thing,  and  I  don't  pretend 
to  it — if  it  means  to  have  a  thorough  critical,  philological, 
and  etymological  knowledge  of  foreign  tongues,  so  as  to  be 
able  to  read  the  masterpieces  of  France,  Germany,  and  Italy 
with  intelligence  and  understanding,  that  is  another.  That, 
I  think,  I  should  be  qualified  to  do. 

Mrs.  P.  Really,  Alethea,  you  always  seem  to  go  so  deep 
into  things  !  much  too  deep  for  me,  I'm  sure. 

Aleth.  There  you  are  mistaken,  mamma.  It  is  im- 
possible to  go  into  things  too  deeply. 

Mrs.  P.  (aside).  It  really  would  be  very  nice  if  she  had 
some  one  to  travel  with. 

Mrs.  J.  (to  Carrie).  And  what  I  feel  about  this  is,  it 
might  lead  to  something  else. 

Carrie.     What  sort  of  thing  ? 

Mrs.  J.  You  might  meet  some  one  abroad  who — who— 
oh  !  well,  all  sorts  of  things  may  happen. 

Aleth.  (to  Mrs.  Prout).  Of  course  there  is  no  doubt, 
that  did  I  obtain  this  post,  my  horizon  would  be  infinitely 
widened. 

Mrs.  P.  Of  course,  dear,  of  course,  and  that  is  so  nice 
for  young  people  ! 

Aleth.  (sharply).  It  is  most  unfortunate,  mamma,  that 
I  cannot  succeed  in  making  you  see  my  point  of  view. 

Mrs.  P.     Oh,  yes,  dear,  I  quite  understand — you  think, 


200  The  '  Swiss  Times ' 

as  I  do,  that  it  would  be  a  good  thing  if  we  went  to  Lucerne 
on  Saturday. 

Mrs.  J.  (to  Carrie).  I  shall  give  notice  then  that  we 
don't  need  our  rooms  here  after  Saturday  morning. 

\Botli  couples  advance  and  lay  papers  on  table  at  same 
momeiit. 

Mrs.  G.     Well,  have  you  come  to  any  conclusion  % 

Mrs.  P.  and  Mrs.  J.  (together).  Yes,  the  post  mentioned 
in  this  advertisement  will  exactly  suit  my  daughter. 

Mrs.  G.  So  many  people  seem  to  want  companions  just 
now— I  have  a  friend  who  is  looking  for  one. 

Mrs.  P.  Oh,  indeed  !  Her  place  might  suit  Miss  Jack- 
son. 

Mrs.  J.  I  was  going  to  say  that  it  might  do  for  Miss 
Prout. 

Mrs.  G.  Are  you  sure  you  don't  want  to  apply  too, 
Miss  Mayne  1 

Helen.  On  the  contrary,  I  should  like  to  very  much 
indeed. 

Mrs.  J.  Oh,  I  hardly  think  you  would  find  either  of 
these  would  do  for  you. 

Helen.     Do  you  think  not  1     Why  ? 

Mrs.  J.     Oh,  well,  you  know 

Mrs.  P.     The  fact  is,  you  see 

Mrs.  J.  In  the  meantime,  Carrie,  don't  you  think  it 
would  be  a  good  thing  if  you  were  to  freshen  up  your  music 
a  little  before  Saturday  1 

Carrie.     I  think  it  would.  \^Looking  round  at  piano. 

Mrs.  P.  (hurriedly).  Alethea,  darling,  suppose  you  were 
to  practise  a  little  ? 

Aleth.     Yes,  that  might  be  advantageous. 

Mrs.  J.  (aside  to  Carrie).  You  make  up  to  this  lady 
while  we  are  here,  and  show  her  what  you  can  be  in  the 
way  of  a  companion.  Then  if  by  any  chance  you  didn't  get 
the  other — see  ? 


The  '  Swiss  Times  '  20 1 

Carrie.  I  see,  mamma — I  wasn't  born  yesterday,  thank 
you.     I  know  my  way  about. 

Mrs.  P.  Alethea,  dearest,  suppose  in  case  the  other  idea 
came  to  nothing 

Aleth.  Came  to  nothing,  mamma  ?  Why  should  it  come 
to  nothing  ? 

Mrs.  P.  Oh,  well,  because  you  might  not  like  it,  you 
know. 

Aleth.     That  is  possible,  of  course. 

Mrs.  P.  Suppose  you  were  to  make  yourself  agree- 
able to  this  lady  here  1  Her  friend  might  suit  you 
better. 

Aleth.  Yes,  I  agree  with  you,  mamma,  that  such  a  plan 
appears  to  offer  many  advantages. 

Mrs.  J.  (to  Carrie).     You  ask  her  if  she  likes  music. 

Carrie.  Or  I  might  sing  a  song  that  would  show  her 
what  I  can  do. 

Mrs.  P.  (to  Alethea).  If  I  were  you,  my  dear,  I  would 
go  and  play. 

Aleth.     Yes,  that  would  not  be  undesirable. 

[Gets  up  and  goes  to  piano,  L. 

Mrs.  J.  (looking  round).  Good  gracious  !  She's  going 
to  play.  We  really  can't  liave  her  monopolising  everybody's 
attention  in  this  way.  Quick,  Carrie  !  Don't  keep  in  the 
background,  pray. 

\Carrie  jumjis  up  and  rushes  to  the  other  piano,  R., 
just  as  Alethea  is  going  to  begin.  Carrie  makes  a 
spring  on  to  the  music  stool  and  begins  a  song. 
Alethea  looks  round,  much  surprised :  Carrie  goes 
on  as  if  she  saw  nothing. 

Aleth.  Oh,  I  beg  your  pardon.  \Carrie  goes  on.]  I 
beg  your  pardon  !  perhaps  you  didn't  observe  that  I  was  just 
going  to  play. 

Carrie.  Oh,  what  a  pity,  I'm  so  sorry  you  should  be 
disappointed.  [Carrie  dngs.     Alethea  plays. 


202  The  '  Swiss  Times ' 

Mrs.  G.  (loud,  to  Helen).  It  is  a  pity  there  is  not  a  third 
piano  for  you  to  play  upon  at  the  same  time. 

Helen.  Yes,  it  is  a  great  pity — I  might  have  shown 
you  some  of  my  accomplishments. 

Mrs.  G.  My  dear,  I  am  only  so  thankful  that  if  you 
have  any  accomplishments  you  keep  them  to  yourself. 

Mrs.  J.  (from  piano).  What  do  you  think  of  that,  Mrs. 
Gordon  ? 

Mrs.  G.  Do  you  mean  of  hearing  two  different  things 
at  once  ?     I  am  not  sure  that  I  think  it  quite  answers. 

Mrs.  J.  No,  I  mean  my  daughter's  singing.  She's  con- 
sidered to  have  a  most  effective  style  of  singing. 

Mrs.  G.     Yes,  I  should  think  it  was  most  effective. 

Mrs.  P.  (to  Alethea).  Say  something  to  show  how 
much  you  know  about  it — do  put  yourself  forward  a  little 
more,  my  dear  ! 

Aleth.  (from  piano,  to  Mrs.  Gordon).  You  doubtless  have 
observed  that  what  I  have  been  playing  is  one  of  the  best 
examples  of  Beethoven's  second  period  before  he  altered  his 
manner. 

Mrs.  G.  (aside).     I  wish  she  would  alter  her  manner  ! 

Aleth.  Perhaps  if  Miss  Jackson  doesn't  wish  to  sing 
any  more  just  now,  I  might  play  you  the  last  movement  of 
this — it  is  a  typical  rondo,  characteristic  of  that  form  in  its 
highest  development. 

Carrie.  Or  I  was  just  going  to  suggest  that  if  Miss 
Prout  didn't  wish  to  go  on  playing  I  might  sing  you  Linda 
Wright's  last  composition — the  words  are  so  touching  as 
well  as  the  air.  It  is  called  '  The  Ninth  Love  is  the  Love 
that  endures.'     Shall  I  ? 

Mrs.  G.  I  am  so  very  much  obliged  to  you  both — 
but  to  tell  you  the  truth,  I  have  a  slight  headache  this 
evening — I  think  I  am  not  up  to  listening  to  any  more 
music. 

Mrs.  J.     A  headache  !    Oh,  dear  me,  Carrie  knows  just 


The  '  Szi'i'ss  Times '  203 

what  to  do  for  a  headache — don't  you,  Carrie  ?  Let  her  get 
you  something  for  it. 

Mrs.  F.     Alethea  will  fetch  you  something. 

Mrs.  J.  Carrie  will  get  some  menthol — run  quick, 
dear! 

Mrs.  G.     No,  no,  please  don't  do  anything  of  the  kind. 

Carrie.  Oh,  please  do  let  me — a  headache  is  such  a 
wretched  thing,  I  know.  I  so  often  have  them  myself  ! 
where  did  you  put  the  menthol,  mamma  ? 

Mrs.  J.     The  menthol  ?     I  put  it  into  your  hand. 

Carrie.  Oh,  yes,  I  remember — and  I  dropped  it  in  the 
garden,  when  I  was  hopping.  Dear  me,  I'm  afraid  I  didn't 
pick  it  up  again  ! 

Mrs.  J.     Just  like  your  carelessness,  Carrie. 

Mrs.  P.  Alethea,  you  know  what  to  do  for  a  headache, 
don't  you  ?  She  has  been  a  martyr  to  them  herself,  poor 
girl  !  It  is  all  that  study  of  course — it  would  be  surprising 
if  she  didn't  have  them. 

Aleth.  (to  Mrs.  G.)  I  wonder  what  sort  of  headache 
yours  is — whether  it  arises  from  some  genei'al  constitutional 
disturbance,  or  if  it  is  purely  nervous  ?  Is  it  over  the 
brow,  or  do  you  find  one  side  affected  more  than  the 
other  1 

Mrs.  G.  Thank  you,  I  really  couldn't  say  what  class  of 
headache  it  is,  except  that  it  is  really  not  worth  paying  any 
attention  to. 

Aleth.  My  headaches,  the  worst  ones,  generally  begin 
over  the  left  eye  and  go  gradually  round  the  head. 

Mrs.  P.  Ah,  my  dear,  you  take  after  your  poor  Aunt 
Eliza — hers,  I  remember,  used  to  do  just  the  same  thing. 
They  were  not  quite  as  violent  as  yours,  perhaps,  but  that 
was  not  surprising,  as  she  was  not  nearly  so  clever. 

Mrs.  J,  My  headaches  always  come  on  just  at  the  top 
of  my  head. 

Carrie.     Mine  come  on  just  here. 


204  The  '  Szvz'ss  Times: ' 

Mrs.  G.  Why,  what  afflicted  people  you  all  are  !  Have 
you  no  headaches,  Miss  Mayne  ? 

Helen.  No,  I  am  sorry  to  say  I  haven't.  In  fact  I  am 
quite  unequal  to  the  occasion  when  headaches  are  talked 
about,  as  I  never  have  any. 

Mrs.  G.  (aside).     What  a  delightful  person  ' 

Mrs.  J.  (aside).  I  never  saw  such  a  silly  little  creature 
as  that  girl  is. 

Mrs.  P.  She  has  none  of  the  poetry  of  feeling  that 
belongs  to  ill  health. 

Mrs.  J.  Look  here,  Carrie,  why  don't  you  get  a  foot- 
stool for  Mrs.  Gordon — or  do  something  ? 

Carrie.     I  don't  know  where  there  is  one. 

Mrs.  J.  Look  then  !  Let  her  see  how  energetic  and 
useful  you  are. 

\Carrie  fusses  round,  while  Mrs.  Gordon  is  talking  to 
Helen,  to  Airs.  Gordon^s  manifest  an^ioyance. 

Mrs.  G.  (to  Helen).  So  you  never  have  any  headaches  1 
what  an  agreeable  companion  ! 

Mrs.  P.  Companion  !  Surely  she's  not  thinking  of 
her  ! 

Helen.     Yes,  I'm  a  very  sturdy  person. 

Mrs.  G.  Sturdy,  are  you  ?  I  should  hardly  have  thought 
it  from  your  appearance. 

Helen  (smiling).  Oh,  yes,  I  am  though — I  dare  say  th.e 
reason  you  think  I  look  pale  is  that  I  have  been  a  long  time 
in  India. 

Mrs.  G.     In  India  %     Have  you  %     Where  ? 

Carrie  (who  has  been  looking  about  for  footstool). 
There — under  the  table  ! 

Mrs.  G.  (worried).     There,  what  % 

Carrie.      Oh,  only  a  footstool. 

Mrs.  G.     Do  you  want  a  footstool  % 

Carrie  (with  an  engaging  giggle).  Oh,  it  was  for  you  I 
wanted  it, 


TJie  '  Swiss  Times '  205 

Mrs.  G.  For  me,  was  it  1  Thank  you,  I  have  one 
already — I  never  use  a  pair. 

Carrie.  Oh,  I  see — I  beg  your  pardon.  (To  Mrs. 
Jackson)  Mamma  !  Why  did  you  tell  me  to  get  a  foot- 
stool 1 

Mrs.  P.  (to  Alethea).  Mind,  my  dear,  you  never  offer 
to  get  anything  people  don't  want. 

Aleth.  Well,  really,  mamma,  I  should  have  thought  it 
was  hardly  necessary  to  say  that  to  one  who  has  studied  the 
most  elementary  laws  of  supply  and  demand. 

Mrs.  P.  I  see,  my  dearj  I  see  !  (Aside)  That  girl 
always  has  an  answer  for  everything.  It  would  be  a  good 
thing  if  she  could  find  some  one  to  travel  away  with  ! 
Do  do  something  more  to  make  yourself  agreeable,  my 
dear. 

Mrs.  J.  (to  Carrie).  Why  don't  you  do  something  a 
companion  does?  it  would  be  the  best  possible  practice  for 
you. 

Aleth.  (to  Mrs.  P.)     What  shall  I  do  ? 

Carrie  (to  Mrs.  J.)     Do  ?     What  do  companions  do  1 

Mrs.  P.  Oh,  you  might  do  a  hundred  things  !  people 
read  aloud 

Mrs.  J.     They  pick  up  stitches  in  knitting 

Mrs.  P.     Write  letters 

Mrs.  J.  They  suggest  things  for  colds  in  the  head — all 
sorts  of  agreeable  things. 

Aleth.  Well,  I  can  read  aloud,  I  dare  say,  if  that 
would  do  ? 

Carrie.     I  could  pick  up  her  stitches,  if  that's  all. 

Mrs.  P.  Well,  try,  dear — don't  stay  in  the  background  ! 
it  is  such  a  mistake  for  a  girl  to  be  in  the  background — 
Aunt  Eliza  used  always  to  say  so. 

Mrs.  J.  (to  Carrie).  Do  suggest  something — don't  let 
that  stupid  little  creature  engross  her  attention  in  that 
way  ! 


2o6  Tlie  '  Siviss  Times ' 

Mrs.  G.  (to  Helen).  I  am  very  much  interested  in 
India — we  must  have  a  long  talk  about  it. 

Aleth.  (advancing  with  a  book).  This  is  an  essay  on 
the  comparative  method  of  enquiry  as  applied  to  the 
researches  of  modern  science. 

Mrs.  G.  (bored).  Oh  indeed  !  Well,  Miss  Mayne,  as 
we  were  saying 

Aleth.  I  thought  perhaps  you  would  like  to  hear  some 
of  it  read  aloud. 

Mrs.  G.  I  am  afraid  I  should  hardly  understand  it. 
But  pray  don't  let  me  interrupt  you — Miss  Mayne  and  I 
can  go  on  chatting  in  a  low  voice  without  disturbing  any- 
one, can't  we,  Miss  Mayne  % 

Aletli.  Oh,  it  was  only  for  your  sake  I  was  going  to 
read  aloud  — I  think  reading  to  oneself  is  a  much  more 
fruitful  method  of  study. 

Mrs.  J.     Now,  quick,  Carrie,  you  say  something  ! 

Carrie.  Oh,  I  think  it  is  so  sociable  just  to  talk  and 
to  work  !  {To  Mrs.  Gordon)  May  I  see  what  your  woik 
is  1  What  lovely  knitting  !  It  is  beautiful — quite  a  work 
of  art ! 

Mrs.  G.  I  am  glad  you  find  it  so.  I  should  have 
thought  it  was  a  very  ordinary  object.  [Holds  up  long 
woollen  stockinff.^  It  is  a  pair  of  winter  stockings  I  am 
knitting  for  a  charity. 

Carrie.  Oh,  I  am  so  devoted  to  knitting  !  If  you 
drop  any  stitches  you  will  let  me  pick  them  up  for  you, 
won't  you  ? 

Mrs.  G.  Thank  you,  you  are  too  kind — I  don't  often 
drop  any  stitches,  I  am  glad  to  say.  Perhaps  that  is 
because  I  have  knitted  vigorously  for  twenty  years 
past. 

Carrie.  No  wonder  you  knit  so  beautifully  then.  But 
you  will  let  me  help  you  whenever  you  need  it,  won't  you  ? 


TJie  '  Szviss  Times '  207 

Mrs.  G.  Oh,  thank  you,  thank  you,  yes.  (Aside) 
Dear  me,  this  torrent  of  solicitude  from  everyone  is  becom- 
ing maddening  !  I  wish  there  were  some  other  place  to 
sit.  \Gets  up  and  (joes  to  window,  Alethea  folloivs  her. 

Aleth.  Does  not  the  light  in  the  middle  distance  recall 
to  you  what  Ruskin  says  in  one  of  the  recent  numbers  of 
'  Prteterita  1 ' 

Mrs.  G.  (turning  back  from  window).  No,  I  can't  say 
that  it  does.     I  dislike  Ruskin  particularly. 

Carrie  (enthusiastically).  Oh,  do  you  dislike  Ruskin  ? 
I'm  so  glad  !  I  can't  abide  him — at  least  I  can't  under- 
stand a  word  he  says  !  never  could  ! 

Mrs.  G.  (aside).  This  is  getting  unbearable  !  But 
this  evening  will  save  me  the  trouble  of  making  my  choice 
at  Lucerne.  [Tahes  a  pack  of  cards  out  of  her  bacj. 

Carrie.  Oh,  are  you  going  to  play  at  cards  !  How 
delightful  !  I  love  cards  !  Oh,  you  should  hear  me  play  a 
Nap  !     I  scream — I  can't  help  it — I  quite  scream  ! 

Mrs.  G.  I  don't  think  you  will  be  called  upon  to 
scream  over  my  cards — I  am  going  to  do  a  patience. 

Carrie.  A  patience  !  Oh,  I  shall  love  that  of  all 
things  !  I  do  like  watching  a  patience — only  that  I  never 
can  understand  why  people  want  to  arrange  the  cards  in  a 
particular  way. 

Mrs.  G.  It  must  interest  you  immensely  to  watch  it 
then. 

Carrie.  I'm  such  a  silly  creature  about  that  sort  of 
thing  ! 

Aleth.  I  shall  be  very  glad  to  see  how  a  patience  is 
done — I  have  always  understood  that  it  is  a  most  desirable 
form  of  recreation  for  an  over-taxed  brain. 

Mrs.  G.  (to  Helen).  Are  you  also  intensely  interested 
in  patience.  Miss  Mayne  1 

Helen.     Indeed   I  am  !  in  fact  I  hope  you  won't  be 


2o8  The  '  Swiss  Times ' 

shocked  at  me  if  I   tell  you  that   I  do  a  patience  every 
evening  before  going  to  bed. 

Mrs.  G.  (pleased).  Indeed  ?  how  delightful  !  Then  I 
am  sure  you  will  be  able  to  teach  me  some  I  don't  know. 

Helen.  I  dare  say  I  might,  I  learnt  a  good  many  in 
India — they  were  a  great  resource  in  the  hot  weather, 
when  we  wei'e  obliged  to  stay  indoors  for  so  many  hours. 
I  know  one  most  delightful  one — shall  I  show  it  you  ? 

Mrs.  G.     Pray  do.  \Helen  shuffles. 

Mrs.  J.  (to  Carrie).  How  is  it  that  you  can't  play 
patience  or  do  any  of  these  things  ? 

Carrie.  Because  you  never  took  me  to  India,  of 
course  !  it  is  not  ray  fault  if  you  will  remain  at  Croydon 
all  the  year  round. 

Mrs.  P.  (to  Alethea).  How  is  it  you  don't  know  any 
patiences,  Alethea  1     I  thought  you  knew  eve"ything. 

Aleth.  I  have  never  had  any  leisure  to  spend  in 
acquiring  mere  pastimes. 

[Helen  lays  out  cards — the  others  look  on. 

Helen.  This  is  a  rather  complicated  one,  I  am  afraid, 
but  very  interesting. 

Mrs.  G.  I  wonder  if  it  is  in  the  handbook  for 
Patience  ? 

Helen.  No,  I  should  think  not — in  fact  I  have  only 
met  one  person  who  knows  it — the  one  from  whom  I 
learnt  it. 

Mrs.  G.  (excited).  Why,  surely  I  know  this — what's 
the  name  of  it  1 

Helen.     It  is  called  '  The  Mystery  of  the  Skies.' 

Mrs.  G.     That's  it  then — it's  my  boy's  patience  ! 

Helen.     Your  boy  1  ^ 

Mrs.  G.     My  son  Harry — Major  Gordon. 

Helen.     Major  Gordon  ! 

Mrs.  G.  Yes — was  it  from  him  you  learnt  ii  ]  YeSj  I 
see  it  was — I  see  it  in  your  face  ! 


Tlie  '  Szviss  Times  209 

Helen.     It  was — yes,  it  was  ! 

J/rs.  G.  You  came  across  him  in  India  then  1  Come, 
put  these  cards  down  for  a  moment  and  tell  me  all  about 
it. 

Mrs.  J.     What  an  intriguing  girl  ! 

Mr.'i.  P.     Very — and  so  plain  ! 

Helen.  I  was  with  some  people  called  Stewart — 
Colonel  and  Lady  Alma  Stewart — Colonel  Stewart  was  a 
great  friend  of  my  father's,  they  were  in  the  same  regiment. 

Mrs.  G.  In  the  same  regiment  !  Was  your  father 
Colonel  Mayne  ? 

Helen.     Yes,  he  was — did  you  know  him  1 

Mrs.  G.  He  was  one  of  my  oldest  friends  !  But  now 
tell  me  about  Harry.  It  was  at  the  Stewarts'  you  saw 
him? 

Helen.     Yes,  it  was. 

Mrs.  G.     Then  what  made  you  leave  India  so  suddenly  ? 

Helen.     I  can't  tell  you,  Mrs.  Gordon. 

Mrs.  G.  You  need  not — I  know  it  already.  Harry 
fell  in  love  with  you,  and  you,  instead  of  returning  it,  fled 
to  England  and  left  him  disconsolate. 

Helen.  Dear  Mrs.  Gordon,  since  you  know  so  much  I 
had  better  tell  you  the  rest,  that  you  may  not  think  worse 
of  me  than  I  deserve.  Lady  Alma  has  a  daughter,  Geral- 
dine,  a  very  nice  girl  indeed,  and  a  great  friend  of  mine. 
I  think  that  at  first  the  Stewarts  thought — they  hoped 

Mrs.  G.  That  Harry  was  going  to  fall  in  love  with 
Geraldine  % 

Helen.  Yes,  I  think  so.  And  then,  when  they  found 
that — that — he  liked  me.  Lady  Alma  was  vexed,  and  she 
told  me  I  was  ruining  your  son's  prospects,  and  all  sorts  of 
things,  and  I  couldn't  bear  to  stay  any  longer.  So  I  came 
away  to  England, 

Mrs.  G.  And  left  my  poor  boy  in  the  most  miserable 
frame  of  mind. 

P 


2IO  TJie  '  Siuiss  Times  ^ 

Helen.     I  am  so  sorry,  Mrs.  Gordon, 

Mrs.  G.  Well,  we  shall  see  what  you  will  say  when  he 
conies  back  to  Europe  next  year,  to  look  for  you, 

Helen.     Next  year  %     Is  he  coming  next  year  ? 

Mrs.  G.     Do  you  mean  to  say  you  didn't  expect  him  ? 

Helen.-  No,  no,  I  didn't,  I  assure  you  !  I  had  meant  to 
take  a  situation  as  companion  somewhere  and  vanish. 

Mrs.  G.  I  know  that  when  Harry  has  set  his  heart  on 
a  thing  he  commonly  obtains  it, 

Helen.     Oh,  Mrs.  Gordon  ! 

Mrs.  J.     A  dangerous  girl,  very, 

Mrs.  P.     I  never  liked  her  face, 

Mrs.  G.  Still,  if,  on  the  other  hand,  you  have  set  your 
heart  on  being  a  companion,  suppose  we  make  a  compromise 
— come  and  be  mine. 

Helen.     Mrs.  Gordon,  how  good  you  are  ! 

Mrs.  G.  Good,  not  at  all  !  You  will  be  doing  me  an 
immense  service,  for  I  wanted  a  companion  so  badly  I  was 
compelled  to  advertise  [lowering  her  voice]  in  the  '  Swiss 
Times ' ! 

Helen  (starting).     What,  you  1 

[Mrs.  G.  nods.     Both  laugh. 

Mrs.  P.     Oh,  what  rude  people  ! 

Mrs.  J.  What  an  ill-mannered  girl  !  (To  her  daughter) 
Carrie,  go  and  join  them,  can't  you  ?  You  can  laugh  so 
very  loud. 

Carrie  (to  Mrs.  G.)  Are  you  not  coming  back  to  your 
patiences  1     We  are  dying  to  see  them,  quite  dying. 

Mrs.  G.     You  must  be,  I'm  sure. 

Mrs.  P.  Now,  Alethea,  do  put  yourself  forward,  or 
what's  the  use  of  being  so  clever  ! 

Aleth.  (looking  from  window — to  Mrs.  G.)  Curious 
atmospheric  effect  of  clouds  that  is — most  interesting  !  you 
see  there  are  distinct  specimens  of  three  of  the  great  cloud 
groups. 


The  '  Szi'iss  Times '  211 

Carrie.  What,  three  great  cloud  groups  !  dear  me,  that 
looks  bad  for  the  picnic  to-morrow. 

Aleth.     What  an  unintelligent  rejoinder  ! 

Mrs.  G.     Are  you  going  for  a  picnic  to-morrow  ? 

Carrie.  Well,  it  was  to  have  been  for  Saturday,  but  if 
we  are  going  to  Lucerne  that  day,  we  had  better  have  the 
picnic  to-morrow, 

Mrs.  J.  (to  Mrs.  G.)  We  are  going  to  Lucerne,  certainly, 
to  see  if  my  daughter  likes  the  lady  who  has  advertised  for 
a  travelling  companion. 

Mrs.  P.  I  am  afraid  your  daughter  will  be  disappointed, 
as  Alethea  is  thinking  of  taking  the  post.  It  is  so  im- 
portant that  she  should  travel  as  much  as  possible.  Oh, 
dear,  I  hope  she  will  get  it ! 

Mrs.  G.  Dear  ladies,  I  must  not  let  you  go  to  Lucerne 
under  false  pretences.  That  post  offered  in  the  'Swiss 
Times  '  is  no  longer  vacant. 

Mrs.  P.     No  longer  vacant  ! 

Mrs.  J.     How  do  you  know.? 

Mrs.  G.  For  the  best  of  reasons.  The  advertisement 
is  mine  ! 

Mrs.  P.,  Mrs.  J.,  Carrie,  Aleth.     Yours  ! ! ! 

Mrs.  P.  Well,  I  must  say  I  think  it  was  rather  shabby 
to  steal  a  march  on  us  in  that  way. 

Mrs.  J.  Yes,  to  have  an  interview  with  us  before  we 
had  one  with  you,  so  to  speak. 

Mrs.  P.  The  shock  of  discovery  might  have  been  fatal 
to  me  in  the  weak  state  of  my  health. 

3Irs.  J.  (aside).     Of  your  intelligence,  you  mean  ! 

Mrs.  G.  After  all,  I  wanted  a  companion — I  advertised 
for  one. 

Mrs.  J.     But  why  don't  you  want  one  still  then  ? 

Mrs.  G.  Because  since  I  arrived  here,  I  have  found 
exactly  the  companion  I  wanted — Miss  Mayne  has  kindly 
consented  to  come  to  me. 

p2 


2 1 2  TJie  '  Szviss  Times ' 

Mrs.  P.  Wliat — you  have  taken  Miss  Mayne,  when 
you  might  have  had  Alethea  ! 

Mrs.  J.     Or  Carrie  ! 

Mrs.  G.  (to  Al.)  No,  my  dear  young  lady,  I  am  afraid 
you  and  I  would  never  have  suited  each  other.  You  are  far 
too  learned  to  be  contented  with  me. 

Jlrs.  P.  Oh,  but  Alethea  likes  ignorant  people  some- 
times, don't  you,  Alethea  1 

Aleth.     Never,  mamma  ! 

Mrs.  G.  Thank  you,  I  am  infinitely  obliged,  but  I  am 
afraid  it  wouldn't  do. 

Mrs.  P.  Oh  dear,  I  wish  she  had  some  one  to  travel 
with  ! 

Mrs.  G.  And  as  for  you,  Miss  Jackson,  I  think  the 
sort  of  person  who  would  suit  you  would  be  some  one  who 
required  a  thorough  knowledge  of  hopping,  in  all  its 
branches. 

Carrie.  I  quite  agree  with  you.  I'll  go  back  to  the 
garden  and  teach  M.  Barette  !  \_Exit  rapidli/,  hopping. 

Mrs.  J.  Carrie — Carrie,  naughty  girl  !  Oh  dear,  what 
shall  I  do  with  her  1  (To  Mrs.  Gordon)  I  can  only  suggest, 
madam,  that  in  future  you  shouldn't  send  people  running 
about  Europe  by  advertising  in  a  newspaper  for  somebody 
you  don't  want. 

Mrs.  G.  (looking  fondly  at  Helen).  I  hope  I  can 
promise  this  at  any  rate,  that  in  the  future  I  shall  not 
need  to  advertise  for  a  companion  in  the  '  Swiss  Times  ' ! 

Curtain. 


213 


LAST  WOEDS 

DIALOGUE  AT  A    CARET  AGE   WINDOW. 

CHARACTERS. 
Laura.  Pamela. 

ScEKE. — Sujy^josed  to  represent  the  platform  at  a  railway 
station.  Otie  end  of  a  railway  carriage  is  seen,  slanting 
to  the  audience,  so  that  the  faces  of  the  person  inside  the 
carriage  and  of  the  outside  are  equally  well  seen.  (The 
carnage  may  be  represented  by  two  chairs  if  necessary.) 

Enter  Laiira — she  is  looking  back  imjjatierUly. 

Laura.  It  is  a  blessed  moment  when  one  finally  comes 
to  see  people  off  at  the  station  !  I  have  heard  there  is  a 
Chinese  proverb  which  says,  '  When  the  guest  is  gone,  the 
host  is  glad.'  It  is  very  true  I  The  Chinese  must  be  a 
remarkably  sensible  people.  They  don't  know  the  mean- 
ing of  the  word  hospitality,  I  believe.  They  keep  their 
towns  and  their  houses  closed  against  strangers— or  they 
used  to,  at  any  rate.  Very  wise  of  them.  It  is  a  pity, 
though,  in  some  ways,  for  I  should  like  to  send  some 
English  people  I  know  to  China  very  much.  [Looks  at  station 
clock.^  Dear  me  1  nearly  twenty-five  minutes  still  before 
the  train  starts  !  It  was  a  short-sighted  policy  on  my  part 
to  hurry  our  dear  Pamela  ofi'  to  the  station  so  soon,  and 
then  have  to  wait  with  her  here  ;  but  the  fact  is,  I  felt 
anything  was  better  than  our  sitting  solemnly  in  the 
drawing-room  together,  with  our  things  on,  ready  to  start, 
exchanging  the   agonis^id  parting  trivialities  that   people 


214  Last  Words 

fall  back  upon  on  these  occasions.  Why  do  they,  I  wonder  % 
It  perfectly  amazes  me  sometimes  to  hear  what  people  are 
saying  to  each  other,  at  the  window  of  a  railway  carriage, 
for  instance —and  yet  I  am  conscious  of  being  just  as 
idiotic  myself  when  I  am  in  the  same  position  !  \ljOohiny 
round.^  What  can  that  girl  be  doing  ?  She  has  been  five 
minutes  at  least  taking  her  ticket.  Perhaps  she  has  been 
telling  the  booking  clerk  one  of  those  long  stories  about 
herself  she  indulges  in  !  Listening  to  her  conversation  is 
like  being  in  the  maze  at  the  Crystal  Palace.  You  go 
rambling  round  and  round,  and  backwards  and  forwards, 
without  having  an  idea  where  it  is  all  to  lead  to — then  you 
suddenly  find  yourself  in  the  middle  just  when  you  least 
expect  it,  and  it  is  impossible  to  get  away  from  it  again  to 
anywhere  else  !  She  has  never  listened  to  one  word  that 
I've  said,  the  whole  week  she  has  stayed  with  me — perhaps, 
ir  the  truth  were  known,  that  is  why  I  don't  enjoy  her 
society  as  much  as  I  might.  But,  after  all,  I  shouldn't 
have  told  her  anything  about  myself,  for  I  do  not  mean 
to  let  anyone  into  my  confidence  about — about — Colonel 
Percival  yet  !  Eventually,  of  course,  the  whole  world 
jDust  know  it,  when  I  have  consented  to  marry  him-^but 
not  yet.     Here  she  comes  ! 

Enter  Pamela  in  travelling  costume,  jjutting  her  ticket 
into  her  purse,  counting  change,  d&c.  *b'Ae  goes  to 
the  carriage. 

Pam.  (getting  in).  Good-bye,  then,  dear.  I've  had 
such  a  delightful  visit.  I  can't  tell  you  how  much  I've 
enjoyed  it,  and  all  our  delightful  talks  !  good-bye  ! 

Laura.  You  needn't  have  been  in  such  a  hurry  to  get 
in  :  we  are  rather  earlier  than  I  thought.  The  train  won't 
be  starting  for  twenty  minutes  yet. 

Pann.  Oh,  really  !  I  thought  you  said  we  had  no 
time  to  spare.     This  is  very  nice,  isn't  it  ? 


Last  Words  215 

Laura.     Very ! 

Pani.     We  shall  have  plenty  of  time  to  talk. 

Laura,  Yes.  \Pause?[  ....  I  hope  you  will  have  a 
pleasant  journey. 

Pam.  I'm  sure  I  shall.  You've  been  so  kind,  and 
settled  everything  so  well  for  me. 

Laura.     You  have  your  ticket  all  safe  ? 

Pam.  Oh,  yes.  It  is  in  my  purse — and  I  have  put 
my  purse  safely  in  my  leather  bag,  which  is  locked — and 
the  key  is  in  this  little  velvet  bag.  So,  you  see,  I  know 
exactly  where  to  fish  for  it. 

Laura.  I  see  — most  convenient  !  [Pawse.]  Your 
luggage  will  be  in  the  van— the  guard  will  get  it  out  when 
you  arrive.  (Aside)  There  now  !  I  knew  I  should  begin 
saying  this  kind  of  thing.  I  must  make  up  my  mind  to  it, 
I  suppose  ! 

Pam.  Give  my  love  to  your  little  brothers  and  sisters. 
I  do  hope  they'll  remember  me. 

Laura.  They  won't  have  forgotten  you  by  the  time  I 
get  back  to  the  house,  at  any  rate,  for  it  won't  be  more 
than  an  hour  since  you  saw  them. 

Pam.  No,  no,  of  course  not — and  they're  so  quick  and 
clever  besides  !  Mind  you  write  to  me  and  tell  me  how 
they  get  on. 

Laura.  •  I'll  be  sure  to  do  so. 

Pam,.  And  tell  me  when  Jacky  can  cut  up  his  meat  for 
himself,  and  whether  they  say  anything  amusing  at  dinner. 

Laura.  Yes,  I  will.  (Aside)  Here  we  are  in  full 
swing  !     I  do  hope  nobody  is  listening  to  us  ! 

Pam.  And,  oh  !  mind  you  don't  forget  to  let  me  know 
the  very  moment  Molly  can  say  *  potato.' 

Laura.  I  won't  forget.  She  very  nearly  managed  it 
this  morning,  didn't  she? 

Pam.  Oh,  very  !  I  was  so  excited  I  \Pause^  ,  .  . 
Mhid  you  don't  repeat  the  things  I've  said. 


2i6  Last  Words 

Laura.     Indeed    I   -will   not.     (Aside)   I  wouldn't  at 
tempt  such  an  etfort  of  memory  ! 

Fain.  I  dare  say  I  shall  have  a  great  many  more 
stories  to  tell  after  I've  been  to  Woodlands.  It  is  a  pity  I 
shall  have  no  opportunity  of  telling  them  to  you  for  so 
long,  isn't  it  % 

Laura.     Yes,  a  great  pity. 

Pam.  There  is  going  to  be  an  immense  party  in  the 
house,  you  know — the  two  Compton  girls,  and  Major 
Weevle,  and  Harry  Barrington.  We  shall  have  the 
greatest  fun  in  the  world.     , 

Laura.  The  Compton  girls  play  lawn  tennis  very 
well,  don't  they  % 

Pam.  Well,  yes — I  suppose  they  do,  though  I  can't 
say  I  think  them  so  very  remarkable.  But  they  always 
have  lovely  tennis  gowns,  and  that  is  a  great  thing. 

Laura.  What  Mr.  Barrington  is  that — the  one  who 
acts  ? 

Pam.  Yes,  indeed  it  is — and  I  hope  they'll  get  up 
some  acting.     I  do  love  it  so  ! 

Jjaura.     Why,  Pamela,  I  never  knew  you  acted  ! 

Pam.  Oh,  yes  !  I  acted  once  in  some  charades  at 
school.  And  then  I  have  a  sort  of  feeling  about  it  that 
makes  me  think  I  could  do  it.  People  do  have  that  sort 
of  feeling  about  acting — don't  you  think  so  ? 

Laura.  That  they  most  certainly  do,  and  it  leads  to 
the  very  wildest  results.  Most  people  have  a  sort  of 
lingering  idea  about  many  things,  that  they  could  do  them 
if  they  were  to  try. 

Pam.  (satisfied).  Yes,  that  is  exactly  what  /  feel. 
But  then,  you  know,  perhaps  it  is  different  for  me,  for  I 
can't  help  feeling  sure  that  I  really  should  be  able  to  act. 

Laura.  Then,  when  is  the  play  to  come  off?  For 
there  isn't  much  time,  it  seems  to  me. 

Pam.     Oh,  some  time  next  week,  I  suppose.     Carrie 


Last  Words  217 

Beverley  said  something  about  it  when  she  wrote — the 
end  of  the  week,  I  dare  say. 

Laura.  The  end  !  I  should  hope  so  !  Why,  this  is 
Wednesday  already,  and  the  play  is  not  even  chosen  yet  ! 

Pam.  I  don't  think  that  matters  much.  We  shall 
know  it  quite  well  enough,  I  dare  say— it  isn't  like  pro- 
fessionals, you  know. 

Laura.     No,  that  it  certainly  is  not. 

Para.  Oh,  dear  me  !  there  are  some  people  coming 
this  way,     I  do  hope  they're  not  coming  in  here 

Laura.  I'll  block  up  the  doorway,  and  pretend  I'm 
just  going  to  get  in  and  take  up  the  other  five  places  ! 

Pam.  (leaning  out  and  watching).  No,  it's  all  right — 
they've  got  in  somewhere  else. 

La^Lra.  Why,  Pamela,  they're  the  people  we  met  on 
the  sands  the  other  day,  that  you  thought  looked  so  very 
nice  ! 

Pam.  Yes,  so  they  are.  Never  mind — it's  quite 
different  in  the  train.  People  who  look  very  nice  on  the 
sands  are  monsters  as  soon  as  they  try  to  get  into  one's 
carriage,  I  always  think. 

Jjaura.  One  comfort  is  that  they  hate  us  just  as  much 
probably,  and  are  longing  to  avoid  us  too  ! 

Pam,.  Oh,  do  you  think  so  1  That  hasn't  occurred  to 
me.     But  of  course  it  isn't  quite  the  same  thing,  you  know  ! 

Laura.     Why  not  1 

Pain.  Oh,  because — because — ^just  because  one  is 
different,  you  know,  from  other  people. 

Laura.     But  perhaps  they  don't  think  so. 

Pam.  That's  a  horrid  idea.  [Paiise.^  How  long  have 
we  now  before  the  train  starts? 

Laura.     Only  ten  minutes  now. 

Pam.  Oh,  I'm  sorry.  I'll  tell  you  why,  Laura.  I 
had  such  an  interesting  letter  this  morning,  that  I  wanted 
to  tell  you  about. 


2i8  Last  Won/s 

Laura.  Then,  why  haven't  you  told  me  all  this  time, 
instead  of  waiting  until  now  1 

Para.  Because  I've  been  so  busy  this  morning,  evei* 
since  the  post  came  in,  that  I  really  haven't  had  time.  It 
is  too  long  to  begin  upon  all  in  a  minute — but  it  really  is 
inost  interesting  !  I  dare  say  you've  noticed  that  I've  been 
rather  preoccupied  and  incoherent  this  morning  1 

Laura.  No,  I  don't  think  I  have.  (Aside)  Not  un- 
usually so  ! 

Pam.  Well — the  fact  is — the  fact  is — now  you  promise. 
you  won't  tell  anybody,  Laura  ? 

Laura.  Of  course  I  won't.  You  know  quite  well  I 
never  do. 

Pam.  Yes,  but  this  really  is  important.  It  isn't  like 
anything  else  I've  told  you. 

Laura  (aside).  I'm  glad  of  that  !  Be  quick,  then,  or 
I  shan't  have  time  to  hear  it.  Some  one  has  written  to 
prop'^se  to  you,  I  suppose  % 

Pam.     Not  at  all,  quite  the  contrary. 

Laura,     What ! — to  refuse  you,  then  ! 

Pam.     No,  no — don't  be  so  tiresome,  Laura. 

Laura.     I  beg  your  pardon.     Go  on,  then. 

Pam,.  First,  I  must  tell  you  something  that  happened 
two  years  ago.  \_Laura  heaves  a  s%gh?\  No  ! — was  it  then  % 
Yes — of  course — this  is  July — the  15th,  so  there  has  been 
one  July  since 

Laura.     Two,  you  mean. 

Pam,.     No,  no — one — one  16th  of  July,  I  mean. 

Laura.  Oh,  very  well,  if  you  must  needs  be  so  par- 
ticular as  to  the  sixteenth  of  a  month — like  people  who 
must  always  measure  exactly  to  the  sixteenth  of  an 
inch 

Pam.  (impatiently).  Well,  never  mind  that  now.  I 
was  staying  abroad  with  my  sister,  Mrs.  Dagonel — and 
there  - 1  met — a  young  man. 


Last  Words  219 

Laura.     Dear  me  !  what  a  dangerous  place  to  stay  at  ! 

Para.  And,  when  I  had  been  there  about  ten  days,  we 
became  engaged  to  each  otlier. 

Laura.     That  was  very  prompt. 

Pam.  Yes,  it  was— too  prompt,  perhaps — for  I  must 
tell  you  that  before  leaving  England  I  had  just  refused 
some  one  else.  You  know  what  a  sad  wicked  creature  I 
am  in  that  way.  I  can't  help  playing  havoc  with  the  men's 
hearts,  as  they  tell  me,  wherever  I  go  ! 

Laura.  But  why  should  your  having  refused  one  man 
make  it  difficult  for  you  to  acuept  another  ?  I  should  have 
thought  the  contrary  would  have  been  the  case. 

Pam.  No— you  shall  see.  The  one  I  had  refused  just 
before  I  left  England — what  shall  I  call  him  ? 

Laura  (boreJ).     That  depends  on  what  his  name  was. 

Para.  No,  no — because  if  I  tell  you  his  name,  you'll 
know  who  he  is. 

Laura.     I'm  afraid  that's  undeniable. 

Paia.  Well,  I'll  call  him  A.,  as  they  do  in  the  sum 
books.  Don't  you  remember  the  sums  we  used  to  have  to 
do  at  school  —if  A.  has  fifty  pounds  and  spends  twopence 
halfpenny  a  week,  and  B.  with  fifteen  hundred  spends 
three  and  ninepence  a  day,  which  will  be  in  the  work- 
house first  % 

Laura.  Yes,  I  remember.  But,  Pamela,  we  only  have 
eight  minutes  longer — you'll  never  get  to  the  end  of  your 
story  at  this  rate  !  if  P.  has  fifteen  sentences  to  say,  and 
stops  every  two  minutes  to  put  in  an  extra  one,  when  will 
she  get  to  her  story's  end  %     Never,  I  should  say. 

Para.  Because  you  will  keep  interrupting  me,  dear  ! 
Well,  as  I  was  saying,  I  had  refused  A.  in  England,  and 
accepted  B.  at  Brussels. 

Laura  (smiling  at  a  recollection).  Brussels  !  It  must  be 
a  dangerous  place.  A  friend  of  mine  was  once  in  love  there 
too. 


220  Last  Words 

Pam.  Indeed  !  But  now,  Laura  dear,  you  must  let 
me  tell  my  story,  or  you  will  never  hear  it. 

Laura.  Very  well.  Go  on.  It's  like  playing  at  '  I  love 
my  love.'     We'll  call  him  B.,  and  he  lives  at  Brussels. 

Pam.  Yes,  yes — now  listen.  The  dreadful  thing  was, 
that  when  I  saw  A.  I  thought  I  liked  him  best,  and  so — I 
broke  off  my  engagement  to  B. 

Laura.     And  what  did  B.  do  1 

Pam.     He  broke  his  leg. 

Laura.  What,  as  well  as  his  engagement  ?  what  a 
very  unexpected  I'esult  !     Was  that  from  grief  ? 

Pam.  No,  no  !  It  was  because  his  horse  stumbled  with 
him  the  day  after  I  saw  him.  He  was  taken  to  a  hospital 
at  Brussels,  where  he  lay  for  two  months,  and  I  never  saw 
him  again. 

Laura.  But  what  became  of  A.,  then  1  He  had 
remained  in  sound  health  all  this  time,  with  no  broken 
limbs,  I  hope  ? 

Pam,.  Yes,  he  had — but  there  was  something  very 
mysterious  about  A.'s  behaviour  altogether.  He  didn't 
know,  of  course,  that  I  had  changed  my  mind — and  I  didn't 
like  to  tell  hiia — and  so  he  went  away  without  saying  any- 
thing more  about  it. 

Laura.     But  why  do  you  call  that  mysterious  1 

Pavi.  Because  it  was  so  odd  that  a  man  who  had  pro- 
posed to  me  in  London  a  fortnight  before  should  meet  me 
in  Brussels  and  not  propose  to  me  again  ! 

Laura.  I  must  say  I  don't  find  it  so  odd.  There  must 
come  a  moment  when  a  man  who  has  been  in  love  with  a 
girl  leaves  off  proposing  to  her. 

Pavi.  Yes,  when  she  marries  him,  or  when  she  marries 
some  one  else — not  till  then  ! 

Laura.  But,  my  dear  Pamela,  you  are  attributing  most 
unusual  constancy  to  mankind  !  Besides,  it  isn't  every 
woman  who  can  inspire  such  a  lifelong  passion  ! 


Last  Words  221 

Pam.  (satisfied).  No,  of  course  not.  I  know  it  is  not 
eyery  woman!  .  .  .  Well,  as  I  was  saying — but  what  o'clock 
is  it? 

Laura.     You  have  six  minutes  more. 

Lam.  Oh,  that's  all  right  — I  shall  have  plenty  of  time, 
for  I'm  just  coming  to  the  interesting  part  now. 

Laura  (aside).     I'ni  glad  of  that  ! 

Para.  I  must  tell  you  that  the  day  I  became  engaged 
to  B.  was  the  16th  of  July,  and  on  that  day  we  did  a  very 
silly  thing — we  tore  my  programme  in  two 

Laura.     Your  what  ? 

Pam.  My  programme.  Oh,  I  forgot  to  tell  you  we 
were  at  a  ball,  at  the  Legation — and  we  each  said  we  would 
keep  the  halves  of  the  programme  all  our  lives. 

Laura.     Of  course  !     And  did  you  ? 

Pam.  No,  no — wait — you'll  see.  And  then  he  said, 
'  The  16th  of  July  will  always  be  imprinted  on  my  heart, 
as  it  in  on  this  programme.'   That  was  very  nice,  wasn't  it? 

Laura.     Very — and  original,  too  ! 

Pam.  And  then  he  said,  '  Whether  I  am  far  from  you 
or  near  you,  remember  that  in  my  thoughts  I  shall  always 
be  with  you,  on  the  16th  of  July.'  He  sail  it  so  sadly,  poor 
fellow — he  seemed  quite  to  have  a  presentiment  that  the 
engasrement  would  be  broken  off ! 

Laura  (aside).  Perhaps  he  had  heard  something  of  you 
before  ! 

Pam,.  Now  I  come  to  the  wonderful  part  of  my  story. 
Do  you  know  what  day  this  is  ? 

Laura.  You  reminded  me  just  now — it  is  the  15th  of 
July. 

Pam.  (triumphantly).  And  to-morrow  therefore  will 
be  the  16th.  Did  you  ever  hear  of  anything  so  extra- 
ordinary ? 

Laura.  I  really  don't  see  that.  I've  known  it  happen 
once  or  twice  before. 


222  Last  Words 

Pam.  Laura,  you  are  so  unsympathetic  !  You  don't 
at  all  realise  what  a  wonderful  coincidence  it  is  that  this 
morning?,  of  all  mornings,  I  should  turn  the  old  torn  half  of 
my  programme  out  of  a  pocket  in  my  travelling  bag,  and 
that  on  the  top  of  that  I  should  get  a  letter  from  Carrie 
Beverley,  telling  me  they  expect  Colonel  Percival  at  Wood- 
lands to- morrow  ! 

Laura,     Colonel  Percival  !  !     Is  that  his  name  1 

Fam.  (covering  her  face  with  her  hands).  Dear  me  ! 
Yes<— it  is.  Now  I've  let  the  cat  out  of  the  b.9g,  and 
you'll  laugh  at  me,  I  know  !  What  a  silly  thing  I  am,  to 
be  sure  ! 

Laura  (aside).  Can  it  be  vnj  Colonel  Percival  ?  (Aloud) 
Then,  how  long  is  it  since  you  have  seen  him  ? 

Pam.  Why,  Laura  dear  !  what  a  memory  you  have. 
I've  just  been  telling  you  how  long  it  is — not  since  July 
1860  — two  years  ago  ! 

Laura.     And  you  have  never  met  him  since  ? 

Pam.  Never  ! — though  I  assure  you  I've  thought  of 
him,  often- — on  the  16th  of  last  July,  of  course,  and  many 
other  times  besides,  whenever  I've  felt  lonely  and  had 
nobody  else. 

Laura,.     What  was  he  like  when  you  knew  him  1 

Pain.  Ah,  now  I  see  you're  beginning  to  be  interested 
in  him.  I  was  sure  you  would  be,  poor  fellow — because  one 
can't  help  feeling  sorry  for  him,  you  know,  after  all. 

Laura.     Why  ? 

Pavi.  Oh,  having  his  engagement  broken  off — and  then 
his  accident — and  then — 

Laura.  But,  as  to  his  accident,  he  is  as  well  now  as 
ever  he  was — that  is — {checking  herself) — I  imagine  he  must 
be,  since  it  is  two  years  since  it  happened — and,  as  to  his 
broken  heart,  that  may  have  been  healed  also  since  you  saw 
him. 

Pam.     It  may,  of  course — but  I  don't  think  it  is  very 


Last  Words  223 

likely.  However,  I  shall  soon  see — for — but  mind,  Laura, 
you  have  promised  not  to  tell  anyone  this  ! 

Laura  (impatiently).  Of  course,  of  course  !  to  whom 
should  I  tell  it  ?  I  could  find  no  one  who  would  be  as 
interested  in  it  as  I  am. 

Pam.  (effusively).  What  a  sweet  thing  you  are,  Laura 
dear,  after  all  !  Well,  where  was  I  %  Oh,  I  know.  I  was 
saying,  if  he  is  at  Woodlands,  I  mean  to  show  him  my  half 
of  the  programme,  and  ask  him  for  his — and  then — and 
then — {archly) 

Laura.     And  then,  what  ? 

Pam.  (coquettishly).  Well,  then,  I  suppose — then — we 
shall  become  engaged  again,  and  perhaps  married.  I  have 
not  quite  made  up  my  mind,  but  very  nearly. 

Laura.  Your  mind,  perhaps — but  what  about  his  1 
How  can  you  tell  whether  he  is  of  the  same  mind  still  after 
all  this  time  ? 

Pam.  I  don't  think  he  is  likely  to  have  changed,  unless 
he  has  perhaps  taken  a  passing  fancy  for  some  one  who 
reminded  him  of  me.  Of  course,  those  things  do  happen 
sometimes. 

Laura.  But  now  just  let  us  suppose,  for  the  sake  of 
argument,  that  it  has  happened.  Let  us  imagine  that,  after 
he  came  out  of  the  hospital  at  Brussels,  he  returned  to 
England,  and  in  the  course  of  time  made  acquaintance  with 
some  one  else — whether  like  or  unlike  you  it  matters  not — 
that  he  gradually  found  that  the  old  love  had  faded  from 
his  heart,  and  the  new  taken  its  place — that  his  affection 
was  returned,  and  that  now  two  people  are  on  the  road  to 
happiness — what  should  you  do  1 

Pam.  The  case  isn't  worth  discussing.  I  can't  think 
of  anything  so  unlikely. 

Laura.  Still,  it  is  a  good  thing  to  be  prepared  for  any 
emergency — I  feel  quite  anxious  to  know  what  you  would 
do? 


224  Last  Words 

Pam.  If  I  found  out  he  really  were  such  a  wretch  as 
that,  I  should  think  I  were  well  quit  of  him.  I  should  then 
make  up  my  mind,  I  suppose,  to  marry  Henry  Smythe. 

Laura  (astonished).     Henry  Smythe  !  ! 

Pam.  (laughing).  Oh,  dear  !  giddy  thing  that  I  am, 
I've  done  it  again  !  I  forgot  I  hadn't  introduced  him  to 
you  before,  so  to  speak.  Henry  Smythe  is  the  other  indi- 
vidual in  my  story — the  one  we  called  A.,  that  I  refused 
before  I  went  abroad. 

Laura.     Not  Henry  Smythe  of  Blandover  ? 

Pa7n.     Yes,  of  course  !  do  you  know  him  1 

Laura.     How  long  is  it  since  you   have  met  him  ? 

Pam.  Oh,  about  a  year,  I  suppose — not  that — nine  or 
ten  months,  perhaps. 

Laura.  Then  it  must  be  the  Harry  Smythe  of  Bland- 
over  who  is  to  marry  my  cousin  Nellie  Cartwright  next 
week  ! 

Pam,.  What  !  It  can't  be  !  There  must  be  some 
mistake  ! 

Laura.  I  don't  think  there  is,  for  I  am  going  to  the 
wedding. 

Pam.  What  an  unprincipled,  heartless  creature  !  Did 
you  ever  know  anything  as  false  and  wicked  as  men  are  ! 
It  really  is  shameful  !  Well,  now,  of  course,  my  mind  is 
made  up — there  is  nothing  left  for  me  to  do  but  to  marry 
Colonel  Percival. 

Laura  (taken  aback).     To  marry — — 1 

Pam,.     Colonel  Percival. 

Laura.     But  suppose  he  doesn't  ask  you  ? 

Pam.  Oh,  Laura  !  I  never  knew  any  one  as  blunt  and 
unkind  as  you  are.  And  just  now  I  was  thinking  you  were 
being  so  nice  about  it  all  ! 

Laura.  I  am  only  trying  to  make  you  understand  that 
it  doesn't  at  all  follow,  because  you  threw  over  a  man  two 
years  ago,  that  he  will  propose  to  you  again  next  time  you 


Last  Words  225 

meet.    Suppose  by  this  time  he  is  engaged,  or  on  the  eve  of 
being  engaged  to  some  one  else  ? 

Pam.  We'll  soon  see  that.  I  know  Rupert  Percival — 
I  know  that  when  I  meet  him  to-morrow,  on  the  day  which 
first  consecrated  our  love,  I  can,  if  I  choose,  bring  him  back 
to  my  feet. 

Laura  (indignantly).  What,  Pamela  !  out  of  a  mere 
caprice — you  know  it  is  nothing  more  — you  are  going  to 
remind  the  man  who  once  loved  you  of  the  power  you  had 
over  him,  and  perhaps  arrest  him  at  the  crisis  of  his  fate  ! 
He  may  now  be  on  the  eve  of  declaring  his  passion  to  some 
one  else,  and  your  interference  may  destroy  the  happiness 
of  two  lives.  Think  before  you  stretch  out  your  hand  for 
that  which  now  belongs  to  another,  and  which  if  you  had 
it  you  would  not  value.  Pamela,  you  know  you  don't  care 
for  him  ! 

\During  the  whole  of  the  above  Pamela  has  heen  fussing 
about,  looking  in  her  hag,  &c. 

Pam.  (absently,  still  looking  about).  Yes,  yes,  Laura 
dear — I  know  !  you  are  always  so  romantic  !  You  get  so 
excited  over  little  things  !  it  will  all  come  right,  never 
fear.  I'm  afraid  I've  not  paid  as  much  attention  as  I 
should  have  liked  to  what  you  were  saying,  for  I'm  begin- 
ning to  feel  worried  about  my  ticket.  I  think  I  hear  the 
man  coming.  Where  did  I  tell  you  it  was  1  Oh,  I  know- 
in  my  bag. 

Laura.  Never  mind  the  ticket — it  won't  be  asked  for 
yet.     Just  listen  to  me  a  moment,  Pamela. 

Pam.  '  One  moment,'  indeed,  dear  Laura  !  It's  all  very 
well  to  say  '  Never  mind  the  ticket ' — but,  if  it  were  lost,  I 
should  have  to  pay  17s.  6c?.  at  my  journey's  end.  \^During 
this  time  she  has  produced  her  key  out  of  her  little  hag, 
unlocked  the  big  hag,  taken  out  the  purse,  and  opened  it^ 
Why,  here  it  is,  of  course  !  How  stupid  of  me  !  And  I 
remember  now,   they  don't  clip  the  tickets   till  the  next 

Q 


226  Last  Words 

station,  so  I've  had   all   this  trouble  for  nothing.     Now, 
what  was  it  you  were  going  to  say  ? 

\A  paj)er  has  fallen  from  thejnirse  when  it  was  opened, 
outside  the  carriage  door,  at  Laura's  feet. 
Laura.     It  is  too  late  now — the  train  is  just  starting. 
Fam.     What  a  pity  !     You  must  tell  me  another  time. 
Why,  where  is  it,  Laura  ?     I've  lost  that  bit  of  my  pro- 
gramme 1     Oh,  look  I   there  it  is — quick — quick — give   it 
me  I 

Laura.     Is  that  it  1  [Pointing  to  paper  on  ground. 

Pam.    Yes,  it  is.    Oh,  make  haste,  give  it  to  me  I   What 
should  I  do  without  it  ? 

\Laura  picks  it  up,  and  stands  a  minute  looking  at  it. 
Pamela  holds  out  her  hand. 
Laura  (throwing  it  into  Pamela's  lap  as  the  train  is 
supposed  to   move   off).      Take  it  !      May  it   do   all  you 
expect ! 

Pam.     Thank  you  1     Good-bye,  dear  ! 

[  Waves  her  handkerchief. 

Curtain. 


22/ 


A  WOMAN   OF   COUEAGE 

MONOLOGUE. 

Scene. — A  Hotel  sitting-room.     Door  R.      Window  ivith 
closed  curtains  B.C.     Door  L.     Table,  chairs,  dec. 

Mrs.  Tremhleton  standing  at  the  door  ivith  bag  in  her 
hand,  speaking  to  some  one  outside. 

Mrs.  Trembleton. — No,  I  want  nothing  else  to-night, 
thank  you  :  this  room  will  do  quite  well.  I  should  like  to 
be  called  at  half-past  seven,  please.  [Comes  for icard.^  So 
here  I  am  at  my  journey's  end,  actually  in  a  hotel  by  my- 
self, for  the  first  time  in  my  life.  It  feels  very  strange  ! 
I  wonder  if  I  did  right  to  come  1  What  will  my  husband 
say — my  dear  George  1  Will  he  be  pleased,  or  displeased, 
at  the  bold  step  I  have  taken  1  At  any  rate  he  will  not 
be  able  to  taunt  me  again  with  being  a  coward,  afraid  of 
my  own  shadow,  as  he  is  so  fond  of  saying,  afraid  of  stir- 
ring a  step  unless  he  is  there  to  support  and  guide  me. 
For  it  was  most  daring  of  me  to  leave  home  in  his  absence — 
to  come  up  to  London  alone,  bringing  the  diamonds  my 
dear  mother  left  me,  to  lodge  them  at  the  banker's.  It  is 
what  he  has  been  wanting  me  to  do  ever  since  we  had 
them  in  the  house,  mainly  on  my  owm  account,  as  there 
have  been  so  many  burglaries  round  us  at  Richmond  that 
every  unexpected  sound  I  hear  I  think  is  a  murderer  in 
the  dining-room.  When  George  is  at  home  I  don't  mind 
so  much,  as  he  is  always  ready  to  tell  me  how  fooliah  I 

Q2 


228  A   Woman  of  Courage 

am,  like  a  dear,  good  husband,  and  to  suggest  some  plau 
sible  explanation  for  the  sounds  that  fill  me  with  terror. 
But  during  the  last  week,  since  he  has  been  iu  France,  I 
really  couldn't  stand  it  any  longer.  I  am  a  little  ashamed 
of  myself,  I  must  admit,  but  after  all,  we  all  know  that 
women  are  not  as  brave  as  men  :  it  isn't  expected  of  them, 
it  would  be  unfeminine  if  they  were.  George  always 
laughs  at  me  most  unmercifully  for  my  want  of  courage — 
indeed,  it  is  quite  a  standing  joke  with  him.  After  all,  it 
is  perhaps  rather  a  good  thing  that  a  husband  should  have 
some  innocent  little  standing  jokes  at  his  wife's  expense, 
it  does  her  no  harm,  and  makes  him  think  he  is  a  very 
witty  fellow — but  I  have  often  pointed  out  to  him  that  he 
has  never  seen  me  in  any  real  emergency,  brought  face  to 
face  with  a  visible  danger  :  then  of  course  it  would  be  very 
different.  I  should  approach  it  in  quite  another  way,  T 
am  sure.  I  have  often  felt  that  in  some  tremendous  crisis, 
some  unexpected  occasion  for  heroism,  I  should  be  equal  to 
anything — that  then  would  be  the  moment  for  me  to  draw 
on  that  store  of  strength  which  no  one  has  suspected  till 
now.  When  it  is  an  every-day  sort  of  peril,  and  George  is 
there  to  defend  me,  I  naturally  turn  to  him — if  I  see  a 
Spider  on  my  dress,  for  instance,  or  a  daddy-longlegs  flies 
round  the  lamp  at  night,  near  my  head,  or  if  the  furniture 
gives  a  great  creak  suddenly  when  I  don't  expect  it.  It  is 
true,  perhaps,  that  I  am  a  little  nervous  about  uncanny 
things — ghosts,  darkness,  the  tales  of  the  Psychical  Society. 
I  know  that  after  sitting  next  to  Mr.  Myers  one  night,  at 
a  dinner-party,  I  hardly  dared  to  go  home  afterwards,  and 
that  after  reading  '  Dr.  Jekyll  and  Mr.  Hyde '  I  couldn't 
sleep  in  the  dark  for  a  month.  But  still,  as  I  tell  George, 
it  really  doesn't  signify  so  much,  only  being  afraid  of  things 
that  one  doesn't  meet  with.  It  would  be  much  worse  if  I 
were  like  my  sister,  for  instance,  whose  fears  find  oppor- 
tunity in  every  instant  of  her  daily  life — who  daies  not 


A   Woman  of  Courage  229 

walk  through  a  country  lane  for  fear  the  cow  grazing  on 
the  other  side  of  the  hedge  should  turn  out  to  be  a  niad 
bull — who,  if  a  puppy  comes  gambolling  along  the  road  to- 
wards her,  already  sees  herself  under  the  care  of  Pasteur — 
who,  if  the  wind  blows  at  night,  lies  quaking,  prepared  to 
receive  her  neighbour's  chimney-pot  on  her  devoted  head — 
or,  still  worse,  if  she  happens  to  have  heard  of  some  illness 
a  friend  is  suffering  from,  develops  the  symptoms  of  it  all 
complete,  and  prepares  for  approaching  death.  No,  that 
sort  of  terror  is  foolish.  Now,  it  is  quite  a  different  thing 
to  be  afraid  of  a  burglar.  Burglars  really  do  exist,  there 
is  no  doubt  about  it — there  are  too  many  well-authenti- 
cated cases  of  their  appearing  in  the  flesh.  Therefore  I 
feel  it  would  be  a  misplaced  lion-heartedness  to  keep  those 
diamonds  any  longer  locked  up  in  my  wardrobe.  I  have 
tried  every  means  possible  to  tranquillise  my  fears  by 
keeping  a  watch  over  them.  First  I  made  my  maid  sit 
with  them  while  the  other  servants  were  at  dinner,  as 
though  they  were  the  baby  and  mustn't  be  left — the  result 
of  that  was,  that  the  third  night  the  cat  jumped  out  from 
behind  the  window-curtain,  and  the  maid  went  into 
hysterics  from  sheer  terror,  thinking  he  was  a  man  in  a 
mask,  while  I,  hearing  the  noise,  fainted  in  the  drawing- 
room,  thinking  that  the  maid  was  being  murdered.  Then 
we  tried  having  a  watch-dog,  but  he  regularly  went  to 
sleep  at  sunset,  and  snored  so  loudly  that  he  kept  us  awake 
all  night — snored  so  that  the  most  timid  house-breaker 
must  have  been  encouraged  to  come  in.  Then  we  put  a 
spring  rattle  in  the  hall  to  summon  the  police,  but  it  was 
such  a  difficult  thing  to  work  that  I  am  sure  it  would  have 
required  the  united  strength  of  three  stout  burglars  to 
spring  it — so  on  the  whole  it  will  be  quite  a  relief  to  me  to 
know  the  diamonds  are  out  of  the  house,  though  it  was  a 
terrible  responsibility  having  them  on  the  journey.  I  did 
not  like  to  cling  too  closely  to  them,  for  fear  of  arousing 


230  A   Woman  of  Courage 

suspicion — but  oh  !  how  my  heart  beat  when  that  man  got 
in  at  the  first  station,  that  dark-browed  man  with  shiny 
boots  and  a  large  scarf-pin  !  I  know  swell-mobsmen  always 
wear  shiny  boots  and  a  big  pin.  When  he  came  in,  I 
instinctively  took  the  bag  from  the  netting  above  my  head, 
and  placed  it  by  my  side — then  I  thought  it  would  be 
better  to  behave  as  though  there  was  nothing  specially 
valuable  in  it,  and  I  put  it  up  again.  Oh,  how  frightened  I 
was  when  he  jumped  up  and  said,  '  Will  you  allow  me  to 
do  that  for  you  1 '  How  foolish  I  felt  I  had  been — how  I 
vowed  never  to  be  so  rash  again  !  I  wonder  where  that 
man  went  to  ?  He  lifted  his  hat  in  an  offensively  friendly 
manner  as  he  left,  and  I  am  sure  I  saw  his  eye  fall  on  my 
bag.  Oh,  how  fearful  it  would  be  if  he  had  guessed  its 
contents,  and  were  to  track  me  to  obtain  possession  of  it  ! 
Such  things  have  happened,  they  happen  every  day.  I 
wish  I  had  gone  into  one  of  the  rooms  below,  even  though 
it  was  more  expensive,  and  noisier.  They  told  me  that  on 
the  first  floor  every  room  was  occupied  except  one.  I 
should  have  felt  happier,  I  think,  surrounded  with  people- 
here  I  feel  very  lonely  :  I  don't  believe  ther-e  is  anyone  on 
this  floor  but  myself,  it  all  sounds  so  quiet.  [Looks  round 
her  nervously.^  I  will  lock  the  door  at  any  rate,  then  no 
one  can  attack  me  unawares.  [Locks  door.^  Now  I  feel 
happier  !  But  perhaps  I  had  V)etter  double-lock  it,  that 
would  be  safer  still.  [Turns  key  again.]  There,  that  was 
twice,  I  think.  [Tries  to  turn  key  hack  again.]  I  will  un- 
lock it  and  see.  Oh,  dear,  how  stifi"  this  lock  is  to  turn  ! 
I  can't  turn  the  key  back  again.  [Makes  great  effort.] 
That  is  once  at  any  rate.  [Tries  it.]  Yes,  it  is  still  locked. 
[Tries  again,  the  key  comes  out.]  What  a  stupid  lock  ! 
[Tries  to  put  key  in  again.]  Why,  what  is  the  matter  1 
The  key  won't  go  in  !  Good  heavens  !  Suppose  I  can't  jDut 
it  in  again  !  Here  I  am  locked  in — locked  in  at  the  roof 
of  the  house  !     Oh,  how  horrible  !     [Tries  again.]  No,  it 


A   Woman  of  Courage  231 

is  no  use,  the  key  is  bent — I  have  hampered  it  somehow. 
What  shall  I  do  ?  Oh,  of  course  the  waiter  must  have  a 
key.  I  will  ring.  \Runs  to  the  bell-rope,  which  comes  down 
in  her  liand.^  Why,  the  whole  house  is  coming  to  pieces. 
Oh,  what  shall  I  do  ?  My  last  hope  is  gone  !  I  may  be 
shut  up  here  for  days.  No,  after  all,  I  said  I  was  to  be 
called  at  half-past  seven,  so  I  have  that  hope,  at  any  rate, 
but  until  then  1  What  a  dreadful  thought  that  here  I  am, 
locked  in,  helpless,  at  the  mercy  of  anything  that  may 
happen  !  My  hair  will  turn  white,  I  know  !  Oh,  why  did 
I  come  ?  And  yet,  here  at  last  is  real  danger  :  now  this, 
if  ever,  is  an  occasion  for  presence  of  mind,  for  courage, 
for  heroism  even  :  now  my  courage  will  rise,  it  will  be 
equal  to  the  demand  on  it  !  Let  me  consider,  first  of  all, 
what  might  happen,  so  as  to  be  prepared  for  my  fate. 
The  most  likely  thing,  of  course,  is  a  fire — the  great  point 
is  to  know  exactly  beforehand  what  one  will  do.  [^Rejlects.^ 
Let  me  consider  it  calmly,  solemnly  !  I  see  it  all  in  my 
mind's  eye — the  first  alarm,  the  running  to  and  fro  of 
terrified  men  and  women,  the  fire -engine  rattling  through 
the  streets,  coming  nearer,  nearer — heralded  by  the  shouts 
of  its  brave  riders,  it  dashes  into  the  yard,  the  fire-escape 
is  put  up  to  the  walls,  the  spray  from  the  engines  dashes 
against  them  :  like  lightning  the  gallant  fellows  tear  up 
the  steps,  they  emerge  with  lifeless  female  forms  in  their 
arms — down  the  netting  to  the  ground — back  again  to  the 
top — on  to  the  roof  like  a  cat — down  again — up  to  the  top 
once  more  !  Am  I  forgotten  1  No  :  the  steps  of  my 
rescuer  draw  nearer.  Breathless,  blackened  by  smoke,  he 
leaps  into  the  room,  where,  almost  suffocated,  but  still 
calm  and  collected,  I  await  him  with  a  damp  handkerchief 
tied  carefully  over  my  mouth — one  moment  more — the 
window — the  dark — the   frantic  crowds  below — one   wild 

leap  into  the  blackness  of  space [Covers  her  face  ivith 

her  hands,  gasps  shuddering.^   Ah  !   Where  am  I  ?   I  really 


232  A   Woman  of  Courage 

believed  I  was  doing  it  !  But  it  is  well  to  be  prepared, 
calmly  and  resolutely  prepared,  to  face  a  hideous  peril. 
\^Fjifts  the  candle,  looks  round  liernervously — shrieks. '\  Ah  ! 
what  is  that  ?  A  black  thing  crawling  on  the  ceiling  !  a 
beetle  !  No,  no,  it  is  the  shadow  of  the  extinguisher  ! 
I  am  afraid  of  looking  round  me,  there  seems  to  be  some- 
thing behind  me  at  every  step  I  take.  [  Whirls  round 
quickly  and  looks  behind  her,  goes  rotmd  the  room 
cautiously,  opens  door  R.,  looks  in.]  The  bedroom  is  tiny, 
I  am  glad  of  that  :  it  somehow  doesn't  seem  as  likely 
that  an  apparition  should  be  doubled  up  in  such  a  small 
space,  like  a  Jack-in-the-box.  [Walks  round,  comes  to 
window  curtains  -R.C.,  whence  a  pair  of  hoots  protrude. 
Staggers  back  speechless  with  fright,  pointing  at  theni.^ 
A  pair  of  boots  !  [  Whispering.^  A  pair  of  shiny 
hoots  ! ! !  I  am  lost !  It  is  he  !  He  has  tracked  me 
here  !  I  am  locked  in  with  him — I  am  at  his  mercy  !  I 
dare  not  call  out  of  the  window — at  the  slightest  sound  of 
alarm  I  make  he  will  spring  on  me.  I  remember  the  cold 
glare  of  his  eyes  as  he  looked  at  my  bag  in  the  train  !  I 
dare  not  look,  I  know  too  well  it  is  he  !  But  how  is  it 
that  since  I  came  in  he  has  not  moA^ed,  not  sprung  on  me  ? 
Ah  !  it  is  too  clear  why.  He  thinks  he  is  concealed,  he 
does  not  know  I  have  discovered  his  secret !  He  waits 
until  I  have  put  out  the  light,  then,  under  shelter  of  the 
darkness,  he  will  make  his  escape  with  my  mother's 
diamonds  in  his  hand— the  diamonds  she  wore  on  her 
wedding-day  !  Ah  !  how  little  she  thought  what  would 
be  their  fate  !  ( With  a  sudden  tJiought)  But  if  he  did 
succeed  in  taking  them,  he  could  not  get  away — the  door  is 
locked,  locked,  hopelessly  locked  !  No,  no  :  of  course  he 
must  have  a  key — a  false  key — malefactors  always  have — 
or  how  could  he  have  come  in  1  There  is  but  one  thing  to 
be  done.  I  will  play  a  desperate  game  :  I  will  put  out  the 
light  and  let  him  think  I  am  asleep.     Under  cover  of  the 


A   Woman  of  Courage  233 

darkness  he  will  steal  away  with  my  bag,  but  my  life,  at 
any  rate,  will  be  saved  !  Oh  !  George,  George,  if  you 
could  see  me  now  !  Oh  !  mother,  mother  dear,  forgive 
your  child  !  Oh,  my  innocent  children,  sleeping  in  your 
beds  at  home,  if  you  knew  the  horrible  perfl  in  which  I  am 
placed  !  Good-bye,  all  my  dear  ones,  I  may  never  see  you 
more  !  \Carries  candle  to  bedroom  door^  blows  it  out,  opens 
door,  pretends  to  go  in,  and  shuts  it  loith  a  loud  noise — sits 
motionless  by  bedroom  door,  listening  with  agonised  /ace — 
after  a  minute  clock  strikes  twelve. '\  Midnight  !  Oh  !  I 
cannot  stand  it  any  longer  !  Come  what  may,  I  must  have 
a  light  !  The  air  is  thick  with  horrors,  the  spectres  of 
midnight  are  everywhere — light,  I  must  have  a  light  ! 
Where  is  the  candle  ?  Where  are  the  matches  ?  My 
hands  tremble — I  scarce  can  hold  them  !  \^Drops  them.] 
Ah  !  [Covers  her  face  toith  her  hands.]  Where  are  they  1 
I  thought  I  heard  a  mocking  laugh  behind  me — dreadful 
faces  look  at  me  out  of  the  darkness.  Oh  !  where  is  it  ?  I 
cannot  find  it  !  \Gropes  about,  finds  the  candle.]  Here  is 
the  candle,  but  the  matches,  where  are  they  ?  A  measure- 
less darkness  is  round  me— I  am  giddy — I  am  lost — I  no 
longer  remember  where  I  am  !  I  am  afraid  to  move,  for 
fear  I  should  go  near  him,  and  rouse  him  to  violence  and 
madness  !  [Gropes  about,  finds  matches,  draws  a  deep  sigh 
of  relief?^  Ah  !  at  last,  the  matches  !  I  hardly  dare  to 
strike  one,  the  flame  will  light  up  some  hideous  thing 
peering  out  of  the  darkness  !  Oh  !  George,  George,  why 
did  you  ever  leave  me  %  Oh  !  if  you  were  here  now  ! 
[Strikes  match,  and  lights  the  candle  with  trembling  hands, 
tfien  looks  furtively  round  her,  sees  the  boots,  she  is  close  to 
them, — starts  aivay  again  at  finding  herself  so  near  them, 
and  darts  to  the  other  side  of  the  room.]  Is  it  possible  he 
has  not  heard  me  ?  He  must  be  asleep,  worn  out  by  the 
excitement  of  his  wicked  project,  I  have  heard  that  so 
the  American  Indians  sleep  at  the   stake — he   can  sleep 


234  -^   Woman  of  Courage 

between  one  dark  deed  and  another  !  [  Watches  the  cur- 
tains.^ I  saw  a  rustle — I  am  sure  I  saw  a  rustle.  He  is 
waking — now,  now  the  moment  comes.  Oh  !  for  courage 
to  inspire  me  !  I  must  try  to  put  him  off  the  scent. 
[^Speaks  loudly  and  cheerfully,  looking  furtively  at  curtains 
at  intervals.'\  What  a  very  nice  hotel  this  is  !  What  a 
charming  room  !  I  am  very  glad  I  came  here,  very  glad 
indeed.  The  whole  thing  has  been  so  pleasant  :  a  journey 
without  a  hitch,  then  the  arrival  here,  all  so  comfortable  ! 
and  I  don't  feel  the  least  lonely,  with  so  many  people  sleep- 
ing near  me.  I  se3  the  rooms  on  each  side  of  me  are  in- 
habited— and  just  now,  when  I  looked  into  the  passage,  I 
saw  two  waiters  on  duty  there,  and  I  noticed  a  burly 
porter  walking  up  and  down,  too,  with  a  thick  stick  in  his 
hand,  so  I  only  have  to  open  the  door  and  call  if  I  want 
anything,  or  ring  the  bell.  (Aside)  I  only  wish  I  could ! 
(Aloud)  Besides,  how  comfortable  it  is  being  without  any 
luggage  !  I  feel  so  independent  !  for,  of  course,  as  I  am 
going  back  to-morrow,  it  was  not  worth  while  to  bring 
anything  but  my  things  for  the  night — they  just  fill  up  my 
hand-bag,  it  is  so  convenient.  It  is  so  light  I  can  carry  it 
quite  easily  myself,  so  I  am  not  afraid  of  its  going  astray — 
not  that  it  would  matter  if  it  did,  as  there  are  no  valuables 
in  it.  So  that  I  really  have  nothing  at  all  to  think  about. 
That  is  what  makes  my  expedition  so  thoroughly  delight- 
ful !  Oh  !  I  am  enjoying  myself  !  \^Looks  round.^  Now, 
if  he  is  awake,  he  must  have  been  completely  lulled  to 
security.  Yes,  I  am  sure  he  is  awake.  His  feet  seem  to 
me  to  have  changed  their  position — the  right  foot  is  a  shade 
more  forward,  I  am  almost  sure,  as  if  he  were  going  to  step 
out  into  the  room  .  .  .  and  yet  no,  it  looks  stiff,  inert,  as 
though  it  were — Ah  !  [^Starts  up,  catches  her  dress  in  the 
chair,  shrieks,  covers  her  face  with  her  hands  without  look- 
ing behind  her.l^  Ah  !  what  is  it  ?  Yes,  I  am  your  prisoner, 
I  am  at  your  mercy  !     Take  it,  take  the  bag,  take  every- 


A   Woman  of  Courage  235 

thing  I  have,  but  oh,  unlock  the  door  and  let  me  go  from 
here  unharmed  !  \^Looks  round.^  Why,  I  was  caught  on 
a  nail  !  I  thought  I  already  felt  the  cruel  hands  dragging 
me  to  my  fate  !  But  oh,  if  he  would  not  prolong  my  tor- 
ture —  if  he  would  leap  out  on  me  in  savage  exultation  and 
take  my  heart's  blood  !  I  could  not  defend  myself,  there 
is  no  weapon  at  hand — yes  !  What  is  that  1  [Looks  at  the 
fender.^  A  bottle — an  empty  bottle.  Ah  !  it  is  labelled 
laudanum  !  now,  now  I  know  it  all  !  This  is  the  meaning 
of  the  stillness,  the  horrible  stillness  of  that  form  behind 
the  curtain — it  is  the  stillness  of  the  dead  !  It  is  not 
with  a  robber,  a  murderer,  I  am  shut  in  here  at  midnight 
— it  is  with  a  corpse — a  cold  corpse — the  corpse  of  one 
who  has  died  by  his  own  deed — who  died  by  poison  here  in 
his  lonely  room  under  the  roof  !  There  he  stands,  hidden 
by  the  curtains  behind  which  I  dare  not  look — I  dare  not 
draw  the  curtain  which  shelters  that  horrible  inmate  I 
This,  then,  was  the  reason  why  this  room  oppressed  me 
with  horror  from  the  moment  I  came  into  it,  why  I  shrank 
from  the  sight  of  these  walls  which  had  received  the  dying 
look  of  the  suicide — the  air  was  heavy  with  crime^this  is 
tlie  room  that  witnessed  his  last  struggle — with  his  last 
effort  he  drew  that  curtain  before  his  convulsed  features  ! 
Oh,  how  little  I  realised  till  this  moment  the  tragedies  of 
w^hich  we  daily  read  !  Now  I  am  face  to  face  with  one — 
alone  with  suicide  and  death.  Oh,  what  must  I  do  ? 
What  shall  I  do  ?  I  shall  go  mad  !  [Leans  forward  on 
the  table  ivith  her  head  on  her  arms.^ 

[Knocking  at  the  door.  She  starts  up  and  stands 
quivering.  More  knocking.  She  whispers  close  to  the  door 
hoarsely.^     Yes,  what  is  it  1 

Voice  (outside).  Sorry  to  trouble  you,  ma'am — 
gentleman  leaving  at  four  o'clock  in  the  morning  has  left 
his  boots  here,  he  says. 

Mrs.  Trembleton.     Left  hia  boots  here  ! 


236  A   Woman  of  Courage 

Waiter.     Yes,  m'm,  behind  the  curtain. 

Mrs.  Trembleton.  Left  them  behind  the  curtain  ! 
\^Looks  round.^  What !  oh  !  Can  it  be  ?  [Bushes  at 
curtain  and  draws  it  aside.^  A  pair  of  boots  !  Oh  !  how 
foolish  I  have  been !  [  Waiter  knocks  again.^  Yes,  the 
boots  are  here,  but  I  can't  open  the  door.  I  have  hampered 
the  lock  someliow.  Will  you  get  a  key,  please  ?  Thank 
you — and,  waiter,  when  you  come  back,  I  think  I  would 
rather  go  into  the  room  below — never  mind  if  it  is  noisy. 
[Puts  on  bonnet,  (kc,  takes  bag.^  Oh,  what  an  hour  of 
agony  I  have  passed  !  if  only  I  had  known  there  were  no 
legs  inside  those  boots,  how  much  suffering  I  should  have 
been  spared  !  still,  I  am  not  sorry  to  have  had  this  expe- 
rience— this  terrible  experience  !  and  after  all,  I  don't 
know  that  I  have  come  out  of  it  so  badly.  [More  knocking 
at  the  door.^  Is  that  the  key  1  Thank  you.  Open  the 
door,  please.  [The  door  is  opened  from  the  outside.~\  And 
I  really  believe  [Going  ott^]  that  when  I  tell  George  how  I 
confronted  the  perils  of  a  hotel  at  midnight,  he  will  at  last 
agree  that  I  must  be  A  Woman  of  Courage  ! 


2Z7 


A  HAED  DAY'S   WOEK 

MONOLOGUE. 

Oh  dear,  what  an  exhausting  day  I  have  had  !  Since  this 
morning  when  I  first  went  out,  until  this  evening  when  I 
returned  from  a  dinner-party,  I  have  been  on  tlie  move  all 
day,  mentally  as  well  as  physically,  about  other  people's 
business.  Perhaps  it  is  partly  my  own  fault  that  there  are 
so  many  claims  upon  my  time— but  there,  I  can't  help 
taking  a  keen  interest  in  all  that  surrounds  me — I  am  too 
impressionable,  too  clear-sighted,  too  sympathetic  !  It 
would  be  better  for  me,  I  dare  say,  if  I  spared  myself  more, 
and  did  not  allow  myself  to  be  troubled  about  other  people's 
trials  and  difficulties,  but  then  I  feel  it  would  not  be  right 
of  me  to  refuse  to  help  them  by  my  advice,  when  I  always 
see  exactly  the  thing  to  be  done — it  would  be  hardly  fair  for 
me  to  stand  aloof  and  let  people  settle  their  affairs  the  wrong 
way,  when  a  word  from  me  would  set  them  right—  but  still, 
it  is  very  trying,  most  fatiguing  !  Poor  Fanny  Howard  ! 
I  wonder  how  she  has  settled  her  difficulties  !  I  met  her  in 
Knightsbridge  this  morning,  as  I  was  going  out  to  shop  the 
first  thing  after  breakfast.  I  saw  she  looked  preoccupied, 
and  in  a  hurry,  so  I  stopped  her  at  once  to  ask  what  was 
the  matter  with  her,  and  then  I  turned  back  to  walk  with 
her,  which  I  felt  was  only  kind. 

'I'm  going  for  the  character  of  a  nurse,'  she  said,  in 
her  usual  flurried  and  nervous  way,  'a  perfect  paragon  I've 
heard  of ! ' 


238  A  Hard  Day  s  Work 

('  A  paragon  ! '  I  thought  to  myself,  '  that  sounds  bad  I — 
i  don't  believe  in  other  peoples  paragons  ! ') 

*  I  must  make  haste,  for  the  lady  I  am  going  to  is  just 
leaving  town — such  splendid  references  I've  had  with  this 
woman — and  I've  had  a  personal  interview  with  everyone 
she  has  lived  with,  except  Mrs.  Tyler.' 

'  Mrs.  Tyler  !     Not  Mrs.  Henry  Tyler  % '  I  cried. 

'  Yes,  Mrs.  Henry  Tyler ^she  has  just  gone  to  Switzer- 
land, and  they  don't  know  where  a  letter  will  find  her — 
besides,  the  nurse  was  only  there  three  months,  for  she  said 
it  was  impossible  to  bear  with  Mrs.  Tyler's  temper.' 

'  But,  good  heavens  !  my  dearest  Fanny,  if  the  woman 
was  only  there  three  months,  Mrs.  Tyler  is  exactly  the  one 
you  should  have  seen — you  must  really  communicate  with 
lier  at  once  !  I  know  her  very  well,  and  I  know,  too,  that  she 
had  a  French  nurse  the  other  day,  who  was  the  most  dread- 
ful woman  !  I  shouldn't  be  surprised  if  this  were  the  very 
one.     Jeanne  Duval,  did  you  say  her  name  was  V 

'No— Mathilde  Laborde.' 

'  Ah,  well — still  it  is  the  same,  you  may  depend  upon 
it!' 

'  Oh,  Geraldine  ! '  cried  Fanny  petulantly  (she  certainly 
has  become  very  irritable  lately — poor  thing,  it  must  be  the 
fault  of  that  husband  of  hers,  one  of  the  most  tedious  men 
T  ever  met).  *  Now  you  have  quite  unsettled  me  again, 
just  as  I  had  made  up  my  mind  at  last  ! ' 

'  But  how  very  fortunate  it  was  that  I  happened  to  meet 
you  now,  dear  Fanny,  before  it  was  too  late  ! ' 

I  wished  I  could  have  remained  longer  with  the  poor 
thing,  to  have  helped  her  out  of  her  difficulties  to  the  end, 
but  I  really  had  not  the  time  to  spare,  as  I  had  promised 
Lady  Agnes  Merton  to  look  in  during  the  morning.  So  I 
was  obliged  to  leave  poor  Fanny,  although  my  heart  smote 
me  for  doing  so. 

When  I  saw  Lady  Agnes,  I  felt  at  once  that  something 


A  Hard  Day's  Work  239 

unusual  had  happened — she  came  in,  her  face  wreathed  with 
smiles,  bubbling  over  with  happiness. 

'  My  dear  friend,  what  do  you  think  ?    Nita  is  engaged  ! ' 

'  Nita,  your  daughter  !  I  am  glad  to  hear  it  !  To 
whom  ? ' 

'  To  one  of  the  most  delightful  young  men  I  have  ever 
met. 

('  Of  course  ! '  I  thought.  I  never  yet  knew  a  mother 
who  did  not  say  the  same  thing  of  her  daughter's yiasnci/.) 

'  We  have  not  known  him  very  long,  but  he  seems  to  be 
in  every  respect  exactly  the  husband  we  could  have  desired 
for  her.     You  know  him  too,  I  dare  say — Bertie  Erskine.' 

'Not  Bertie  Erskine  about  whom  there  was  thatsc ' 

I  checked  myself  in  time. 

'  What  did  you  say  ? '  asked  Lady  Agnes  quickly. 

I  hesitated. 

'  Well,  really  .  .  .  My  dear  Lady  Agnes,  it  may  not  be 
true,  you  know,  but  there  certainly  was  some  story  about 
his  being  turned  out  of  his  club  last  year — that  Lady 
Gordon  was  mixed  up  in  it  somehow.  I  really  forget 
exactly  what  it  was,  but  I  dare  say  I  could  find  it  all  out 
for  you.' 

'  Bertie  Erskine  ! '  repeated  Lady  Agnes  slowly — she 
certainly  is  stupid  at  taking  in  things  sometimes.  '  Can  it 
be  possible  ?  However,  it  is  not  too  late — he  will  be  here 
this  morning.' 

'  Exactly  !  and  then  he  can  tell  you  all  about  it  himself 
- — so  much  nicer — and  after  all,  an  engagement  is  not  such 
an  irrevocable  thing '  {cheerfully).  '  Good-bye,  dear  Lady 
Agnes  !  I  am  so  glad  I  just  happened  to  come  in  this 
morning  ! ' 

By  the  way,  I  heard  from  a  friend  I  met  in  the  after- 
noon, that  it  was  not  Bertie  Erskine,  but  Billy  i^tteErskine, 
the  story  was  about. 

I  wonder  if  Lady  Agnes  has  found  that  out. 


240  A  Hard  Day  s  Work 

I  dare  say  she  has.  At  any  rate,  I  am  afraid  I  shan't 
have  time  this  week  to  go  and  tell  her,  and  I  never  like 
putting  that  kind  of  thing  in  a  letter — I  am  always  so  afraid 
of  spreading  scandal — but  certainly  for  the  next  few  days  I 
shall  not  have  a  minute  to  spare.  Really,  I  can't  think  how 
I  live  through  all  I  have  to  do — I  am  quite  worn  out  with 
it  sometimes.  I  got  to  Lady  Greville's  to-day,  where  I 
have  a  standing  invitation  to  luncheon,  quite  faint  and 
exhausted.  I  was  rather  surprised  there  to  find  no  one  but 
Sir  Charles  Porter  in  possession  of  the  drawing-room.  Nice 
youth,  Sir  Charles  Porter — at  least  he  will  be  when  he  is 
older.  I  don't  know  how  it  is,  boys  of  six  or  seven  and 
twenty  are  not  nearly  so  interesting  as  they  used  to  be — - 
perhaps  it  is  the  difference  in  education  —everything  is 
changing  nowadays. 

Sir  Charles  seemed  to  be  in  a  state  of  nervous  anxiety, 
quite  unlike  his  usual  light-hearted  manner — and  started 
when  he  saw  me  come  into  the  room,  as  though  when  the  door 
opened  he  had  expected  to  see  some  one  else.  ],  seeing  he 
was  unwilling  to  talk,  took  the  whole  Vnirden  of  the  conver- 
sation on  my  shoulders  as  well  as  I  could,  but  it  was  very 
uphill  work,  and  I  finally  had  to  fall  back  upon  a  photo- 
graph album,  which  I  never  do  unless  I  am  positively  at  my 
last  gasp. 

Sir  Charles  seemed  quite  listless  at  first,  but  he  gradually 
woke  up  into  pa}ing  more  attention,  as  I  told  him  about  all 
the  people  whose  portraits  we  were  looking  at.  I  have  a 
way  of  running  on,  I  suppose,  that  makes  people  listen  to 
me  somehow — they  seem  to  think  I  have  a  happy  knack  of 
putting  things,  a  sort  of  sparkling  way  with  me,  perhaps — 
and  so,  I  began  telling  him  all  about  everybody.  The  first 
two  portraits  in  the  book  were  of  course  Lady  Greville's 
father  and  mother.  The  mother  is  a  most  extraordinaiy- 
looking  old  lady,  and,  as  I  said  to  Sir  Charles,  is  cez'tainly 
a  warnins:  to  her  daujihter  of  what  she  will  be  like — and 


A  Hard  Day's  Work  241 

still  more  to  Blanche  Greville,  her  granddaughter,  for  the 
girl  is  as  like  her  grandmother  as  she  can  be.  Sir  Charles 
had  not  noticed  the  likeness  until  I  pointed  it  out  to  him. 
Then  there  came  a  portrait  of  General  Chaloner,  Lady 
Greville's  brother,  Blanche's  bachelor  uncle,  who,  it  is  said, 
means  to  leave  his  niece  all  his  fortune.  He  is  a  most 
splendid,  soldierly-looking  creature,  and,  as  I  told  Sir 
Charles,  likely  to  live  for  thirty  years  longer,  for  all  those 
Chaloners  are  a  wonderfully  long-lived  race.  Their  name 
is  legion — and  their  photographs  are  legion  too  !  And  as 
for  the  Greville  family,  I  got  quite  tired  of  looking  at  all 
the  representations  of  them,  depicted  in  every  stage  of 
growth  and  fashion  !  Sir  Charles,  poor  fellow  !  evidently 
thought  it  his  duty  to  please  me  by  looking  at  every  one  of 
them  scrupulously,  as  if  they  were  the  most  interesting 
things  in  the  world  to  him — it  was  too  funny  !  I  couldn't 
help  feelino:,  and  saying,  as  we  turned  over  page  after  page, 
'  Really,  I  don't  think  I  ever  saw  such  an  uninteresting 
family — they  are  all  one  worse  than  the  other.  Don't  you 
think  so.  Sir  Charles  ? ' 

'  Well,  I  don't  know,  it  hadn't  occurred  to  me,'  he  said, 
in  a  constrained  voice — his  manner  certainly  has  altered 
incredibly  for  the  worse  since  I  first  knew  him  ! 

'  Let  us  go  on  to  something  more  interesting,'  I  said, 
turning  over  the  pages.  'Ah,  this  is  better — do  look  !  this 
is  really  a  very  amusing  juxtaposition  of  people  !  Guy 
Paget,  Henry  Fitzwilliam,  Captain  Morgan  and  Charlie 
Lennox — all  of  them  Blanche's  admirers  !  What  a  good 
idea  to  put  them  on  the  same  page,  isn't  it  % ' 

'  Very,'  said  Sir  Charles  grimly. 

*  Captain  Morgan  was  a  great  friend  of  mine,'  I  con- 
tinued, determined  to  amuse  my  gloomy  companion  if  1 
could.  '  He  was  ordered  out  to  Africa  at  the  end  of  last 
summer,  as  I  dare  say  you  know.  During  the  whole  season 
he  had  been  very  intimate  with  some  friends  of  mine.     I 

R 


242  A  Hard  Dafs  Work 

won't  tell  you  their  names,  as  I  don't  think  it  would  be 
quite  fair.  I  hate  spreading  gossip — but  I  dare  say  you 
■will  guess  !  He  had  more  especially  seen  a  great  deal  of  the 
daughter,  a  very  intimate  friend  of  mine,  who  had  certainly 
looked  very  kindly  on  him,  as  young  girls  too  often  im- 
prudently do.  Ill-natured  people  said  — though  I  am  not 
sure  that  I  quite  believe  them — that  when  Captain  Morgan 
was  ordered  to  Africa,  he  was  not  sorry  of  the  opportunity 

it  gave  him  to  say  good-bye  to  Miss (never  mind  who) ' 

{archly)  '  before  arriving  at  a  further  stage  of  friendship  at 
which  a  farewell  might  perhaps  be  more  difficult,  though 
more  dramatic — so  accordingly  the  night  before  he  sailed, 
he  went  to  say  good-bye  to  her,  and  found  her,  by  the  most 
curious  chance  in  the  world,  quite  alone.  What  do  you 
think  happened  ?  Either  she  was  unable  to  restrain  her 
feelings,  or  else  she  had  the  most  wonderful  presence  of  mind 
—I  have  never  known  which  to  call  it — but  when  the  fatal 
word  '  Good-bye '  passed  his  lips,  she  burst  into  an  agony 
of  tears,  aiid  well-nigh  sank  on  the  ground  at  his  feet  ! 
Tliis  threw  him  into  the  greatest  perturbation,  poor  youth! 
which  was  still  further  increased  when  the  door  suddenly 
opened,  and  Lady  Greville,  finding  the  young  couple  in  the 
touching  situation  I  have  described,  gave  them  her  bless- 
ing ^ 

'  Lady  Greville  ! '  shouted  Sir  Charles,  in  a  state  of  un- 
accountable excitement. 

'  Dear  me,  yes — now  I  have  let  the  name  slip  out,  like 
the  stupid  thing  I  am  !  How  very  absurd — but  however, 
I  dare  say  you  had  guessed  it  already  % ' 

'  Guessed  it  ?  No,  indeed  !  by  heavens,  I  had  not  ! 
What !  Do  you  mean  to  say  that  the  heroine  of  your  story, 
the  girl  who  fell  at  the  feet  of — of — Captain  Morgan,  was 
Miss  Greville  ? — Blanche  Greville  1     It  is  impossible  ! ' 

'  No — I  assure  you  the  story  is  quite  true,  perfectly  true 
—  Captain  Morgan,  I  need  not  say,  went  away  from  here 


A  Hard  Dafs  Work  243 

that  night — for  it  happened  in  this  very  room — an  engaged 
man.' 

'  But  then,  if  it  is  true,  why  did  he  not  marry  her  % ' 

'  Ah,  now  you  come  to  the  dramatic  part  of  the  story. 
Aifection,  they  say,  depends  upon  propinquity.  So,  when, 
one  person  is  in  Grosvenor  Square,  and  the  other  in  Africa, 
affection  is  perhaps  apt  to  languish  !  At  any  rate,  when 
Captain  Morgan  had  been  away  six  months,  Blanche  thought 
that  Sir  Henry  Smythe,  with  20,000?.  a  year,  would  make 
a  more  desirable  husband.  So  she  wrote  to  break  off  her 
engagement  to  Captain  Morgan,  who,  they  say,  was  not  at 
all  sorry  to  be  released — but  now  a  dreadful  thing  happens. 
Sir  Henry  Smythe,  who,  as  you  know,  is  always  going 
round  the  world  when  he  has  nothing  else  to  do,  turns  out 
to  be  engaged  to  a  girl  in  Japan,  the  daughter  of  the 
English  Minister  there — and  so,  poor  Blanche  is  left  mourn- 
ing !' 

Sir  Charles  certainly  is  a  most  exti-aordinary  pei'son,  he 
had  suddenly  awoke  out  of  his  lethargy  into  a  state  of  violent 
passion,  like  a  child  who  is  roused  from  its  sleep,  and  begins 
to  scream — he  began  striding  about  the  room  like  a  madman 
(I  shouldn't  be  surprised  if  that  happened  some  day,  he  is  so 
very  peculiar  sometimes),  and  then  said  abruptly  : 

'  I  find  I  must  go — I'm  afraid  I  can't  wait  till  Lady 
Greville  comes  in.  Will  you  tell  her  that — that  I  had  an 
appointment  at  half-past  one,  in  the  City  %  I  had  forgotten 
it,'  and  off  he  went. 

Of  course  I,  who,  when  I  am  shown  one  sentence  of  a 
story,  can  always  reconstruct  the  rest  of  it,  now  saw  the 
state  of  things,  which  indeed  I  should  have  discovered  in 
any  case  a  few  minutes  later,  when  Lady  Greville  arrived, 
very  much  surprised  to  see  »ie,  and  me  only. 

'  What,  Geraldine  !  you  here  !  How  long  have  you  been 
here  1 '  and  she  looked  round  the  room  vaguely,  as  if  she 
expected  to  see  some  one  else. 

b2 


244  ^  Hard  Day's  Work 

'  Yes,  dear,'  I  said,  '  I  thought  I  would  come  in  to 
luncheon  with  you  to-day,  and  as  I  was  told  you  would  be 
home  at  half-past  one,  I  waited — but  I  have  not  been  at 
all  dull.  Sir  Charles  Porter  has  been  here,  and  I  found 
.him  most  entertaining  ! ' 

'  Sir  Charles  Porter  !     Is  he  gone,  then  % ' 

'  Yes,  he  was  obliged  to  go — he  told  me  to  tell  you  he 
had  an  appointment  in  the  City  at  half-past  one.' 

*  How  very  odd — why  that  is  the  very  time  he  appointed 
to  come  here  !  He  wrote  to  me  last  night  to  ask  if  he 
might  come  to  speak  to  me  at  1.30  to-day.  Of  course  I 
knew  what  for — for,  between  ourselves,  he  has  been  paying 
a  great  deal  of  attention  to  Blanche  lately,  and  in  fact  I 
liave  wondered  a  little  at  his  not  declaring  himself  before. 
Blanche  had  already  settled  to  go  out  driving  with  Lady 
Castleton  this  morning,  but  I  expect  her  in  every  moment. 
Sir  Charles,  I  dare  say,  will  turn  up  here  presently.' 

However,  I  don't  believe  that  Sii-  Charles  did  turn  up, 
or  what  is  more,  that  he  ever  will,  in  that  pai-ticular  way — 
but  I  did  not  remain  to  see,  for  I  made  my  escape  as  soon 
as  I  could  after  luncheon,  as  I  had  to  get  to  the  other  end 
of  London  by  tea-time.  I  had  promised  to  go  to  tea  with 
Mary  Woolner,  dear  good  creature  !  She  is  one  of  those 
people  whose  children  are  always  at  a  crisis  of  their  educa- 
tion when  you  go  to  see  them.  She  is  always  just  making 
up  her  mind  to  have  a  holiday  governess  for  Mary,  or  to 
take  Jack  away  from  school  for  a  year,  with  a  tutor, 
or  to  send  Nellie  to  Queen's  College,  and  so  on.  Accord- 
ingly, when  I  got  there  this  afternoon,  I  found  the  customary 
state  of  things  — namely,  that  Mary  was  quite  rigid  with 
agitation  at  having  decided  to  send  Lucy  to  Heidelberg  for 
six  months,  to  live  with  a  former  governess  of  her  own  who 
takes  in  six  young  English  ladies,  who  have  the  privilege  of 
speaking  German  to  her,  and  their  mother  tongue  to  each 
other,  for  the  sum  of  120^.  a  year.    I  felt  when  I  first  heard 


A  Hard  Day's  Work  245 

of  it  that  the  whole  thing  was  inexpedient  and  absurd,  and 
that  the  plan  could  never  answer,  but  I  don't  like  meddling, 
so  I  held  my  peace,  until  Mary  so  pointedly  asked  my 
advice  that  I  was  obliged  to  tell  her  what  I  thought.  I 
said,  '  I  don't  think  I  can  give  an  unbiassed  opinion  about 
Heidelberg,  for  I  happen  to  know  two  or  three  things  about 
the  place  that  would  quite  prevent  me  from  ever  sending  a 
daughter  of  mine  there.' 

'  Good  heavens,  Geraldine,  not  really?'  Mary  exclaimed. 
'  Why,  I  have  just  posted  my  letter  to  Fraulein  Zimmern, 
making  all  the  final  arrangements,  and  saying  Lucy  will 
cross  next  Tuesday.  Do  tell  me  what  you  have  heard  ! 
What  sort  of  thing  do  you  mean  1 ' 

'  Well,  on  the  face  of  it,'  I  replied,  '  a  university  town 
is  not  quite  the  place  to  send  a  girl  to.  The  students  make 
it  very  disagreeable  in  many  ways,  and  I  believe  at  Heidel- 
berg it  is  not  at  all  an  uncommon  thing  for  them  to  kiss 
their  hands  to  girls  in  the  street.  Now  I  consider  that 
shocking ! ' 

'Oh,  extremely  so,  no  doubt — but  still,  if  that  is 
all ' 

'  All  !  But,  my  dear  Mary,  how  much  more  do  you 
want  ?  Besides,  it  is  not  all — far  from  being  all  !  There 
are  all  kinds  of  stories  about  the  place,  and  I  believe  it  to 
be  an  undoubted  fact  that  last  winter  no  less  than  three 
English  girls  ran  away  from  boarding-houses  with  German 
students.  Now,  how  would  you  like  that  to  happen  to  your 
daughter  ? ' 

'  Not  at  all,  I  must  confess.  Still,  I  don't  think  it  very 
likely  that  Lucy ' 

'■Lucy !  but  after  all,  Lucy  is  in  some  respects,  I  imagine, 
like  other  girls  !  I  know,  of  course,  how  carefully  you  have 
trained  her,  and  what  excellent  principles  she  has,  what 
charming  manners — but  girls  will  be  girls,  you  know,  and 
you  can't  expect  her  to  be  quite  unlike  the  rest  of  her  sex.' 


246  A  Hard  Day's  Work 

'Well,  we  will  see  what  my  husband  says,'  Mary 
answered,  as  that  kind  of  woman  invariably  does — and  as 
it  happened,  just  at  that  moment  the  door  opened,  and  Mr. 
Woolner  walked  in.  Now,  he  is  exactly  the  type  of  man  I 
have  a  perfect  horror  of — a  great,  blutf,  matter-of-fact  sort 
of  creature,  priding  himself  on  his  common  sense  and  know- 
ledge of  the  world,  and  always  settling  things  in  an  otf-hand 
manner  which  he  considers  infallible,  without  an  idea  of 
the  more  sensitive  perceptions  and  scruples  of  womankind. 

'  Oh,  George,  I  am  so  glad  you  have  come  in  ! '  Mary 
cried.  '  What  do  you  think  Geraldine  has  been  telling  me 
aljout  Heidelberg  ? ' 

'  I'm  sure  I  can't  tell,'  he  answered,  in  his  indifterent, 
ill-mannered  fashion.  '  That  the  university  has  the  cholera, 
perhaps,  or  that  the  Schloss  has  fallen  into  the  river.  Is 
there  any  tea  left,  Mary  % ' 

'No,  but  do  listen,  George!  She  says  there  have  been 
three  elopements  from  Heidelberg  !  What  are  we  to  do 
about  Lucy  1 ' 

'  About  her  eloping,  do  you  mean  1  She  must  manage 
that  for  herself,  my  dear.    We  can't  do  anything  for  her  ! ' 

'George  !  how  tiresome  you  are — you  know  quite  well 
what  I  mean.  Do  you  think  that  Heidelberg  can  be  a 
proper  place  to  send  her  to,  after  all  1 ' 

'  Well,  all  I  can  say  is,  that  if  it  is  not,  London  isn't  a 
proper  place  either — for  there  were  certainly  three,  if  not 
four,  elopements  from  London  last  year,  and  many  other 
wicked  things,  which  perhaps  Lucy  may  take  to,  if  she  has 
a  turn  that  way  !  Come,  give  me  a  cup  of  tea,  my  dear, 
and  let's  hear  no  more  of  this  nonsense  ! ' 

Horrid,  gormandising  creature,  always  thinking  of  his 
own  comfort,  and  preferring  his  tea  to  his  children's  wel- 
fare !  I  need  not  say  that  after  his  most  rude  and  insulting 
words  I  would  not  stay  in  the  room  with  him  a  minute 
longer.     Perhaps  next  time  Mary  is  in  a  difficulty,  she  will 


A  Hard  Day's  Work  247 

be  sorry  that  she  has  cut  herself  off  from  the  chance  of  my 
help. 

I  dislike  of  all  things  having  to  dress  for  dinner  in  a 
hurry — the  result  of  all  this  Heidelberg  discussion  was  that 
I  got  to  Lady  Marie  Stanhope's  dinner-party  a  quarter  of 
an  hour  after  everyone  else  had  arrived.  My  host,  who 
took  me  down,  was  in  rather  a  thorny  frame  of  mind  in 
consequence,  in  spite  of  his  delight  with  his  new  cook  — 
which,  by  the  way,  he  most  naively  imparted  to  all  his 
gaests  !  though,  as  I  told  him,  I  don't  think  she  is  as  good 
as  the  last.  But  he  doesn't  care  what  anybody  says,  he  is 
the  sort  of  man  who  always  thinks  he  is  right.  I  got  quite 
exhausted  by  the  end  of  dinner,  after  vainly  trying  to  prove 
to  him  on  several  occasions  that  he  was  wrong  ! 

He  said  only  one  thing  that  interested  me,  and  that 
was,  that  he  had  met  Sir  Charles  Porter  this  afternoon,  who 
said  he  was  going  to  the  East.  I  am  glad  of  it — he  will  be 
out  of  the  way  of  that  flirting  Blanche  Greville. 

Heigho  !  /  should  like  to  go  to  the  East,  or  to  the 
West,  or  somewhere  at  any  rate  a  long  way  oft',  beyond  the 
reach  of  people  who  come  to  me  for  advice  and  sympathy  — 
but  I  really  don't  like  to  do  it.  I  don't  feel  as  if  it  would 
be  right  to  leave  all  my  friends  for  so  long.  But  there  is 
time  enough  to  think  of  it,  after  all — I  won't  trouble  my 
head  about  it  to-night,  as  I  have  a  busy  day,  and  an  early 
start,  before  me  to-morrow.  I  promised  I  would  go  to  Lady 
Walmer's  in  the  morning,  to  help  her  to  choose  the  new 
paper  for  her  dining-room — I  know  if  I  don't  go  that  she 
will  take  that  horrid  greenish-grey  one  she  has  set  her  heart 
upon,  and  which  I  detest  !  And  now,  to  bed — for  I  am 
quite  worn  out,  in  mind  and  in  body,  by  my  hard  day's 
work  ! 

Curtain. 


248 


THE  EELIQUAEY 

MONOLOGUE. 

Alice.  It  is  done  !  I  have  written  to  accept  him  ! 
There  is  the  letter,  the  fatal  letter,  that  carries  my  destiny 
within  its  folds.  I  am  almost  afraid  of  it,  it  seems  to  me 
such  a  terribly  important  document  !  It  is  very  odd — ^from 
the  moment  I  had  written  it  I  felt  less  and  less  inclined  to 
send  it.  What  a  curious  thing,  to  be  sure  !  It  doesn't 
always  happen,  I  suppose  :  people  can't  always  feel  like 
that  about  the  letters  they've  written,  or  we  should  never 
receive  any  at  all.  Correspondence  would  cease,  postmen 
would  starve,  the  Dead  Letter  Office  would  be  the  only 
one  we  should  need. 

But  I  am  talking  vainly — this  is  an  idle  dream  !  there 
lies  the  letter,  it  is  written,  stamped  and  sealed,  and  there- 
fore, in  accordance  with  a  stern  and  unvarying  law  of 
nature,  it  must  now  go  to  the  post — there  is  no  help  for  it, 
I  suppose.  Still,  it  cannot  go  until  to-morrow  morning, 
that  is  one  comfort  ;  for  it  is  past  midnight,  and  time  all 
good  letters  weie  in  bed.  And  yet,  if  I  could  only  have 
had  it  posted  now  there  Avould  have  been  an  end  of  it,  and 
I  should  never  have  seen  it  again.  I  should  have  heard 
of  it,  though,  often  enough,  for  I  know  what  the  result 
would  be — Frank  would  come  rushing  round  here  the  first 
thing  after  breakfast,  and  then  I  should  never  be  left  in 
peace  again.     I  really  don't  think  I  could  stand  it. 


T]ie  Reliquary  249 

Have  I  done  right,  I  wonder  %  What  a  silly  creature 
he  must  be  to  give  me  all  this  trouble — to  write  to  propose 
to  me,  instead  of  asking  me  straight  out  when  we  were 
together,  and  getting  my  answer  then  and  there.  It  would 
have  been  so  much  better  !  I  should  have  been  surprised 
into  saying  something — I'm  sure  I  don't  know  what — and 
there  would  have  been  an  end  of  it.  He  has  had  heaps  of 
opportunities,  I  am  sure,  for  doing  so.  We  were  together 
at  Lord's  on  Monday,  and  stood  on  the  top  of  a  little  shed 
for  ever  so  long  after  luncheon,  while  he  was  explaining 
the  cricket  to  me — what  could  have  been  better  than  that  % 
Or  the  night  before,  at  Lady  Montague's,  when  we  were 
crushed  into  an  alcove  on  the  stairs  by  three  dowagers,  for 
ever  so  long,  why  couldn't  he  have  done  it  then  ?  not  to 
mention  all  the  other  places  I've  met  him  at  in  the  last 
fortnight,  for  he  has  been  absolutely  my  shadow  !  Bazaars, 
where  I've  sold  him  rose-buds  for  fifteen  shillings,  and  cups 
of  tea  for  a  pound — private  theatricals,  where  he's  had  to 
stand  on  the  landing  all  the  evening  and  look  tlirough  the 
chink  of  the  door — recitations  in  the  afternoon,  where  he 
has  sometimes  been  the  only  man  in  the  room,  poor  dear, 
such  was  his  devotion  ! 

Ah,  well,  it  has  been  a  pleasant  and  peaceful  time, 
without  fiery  emotions  of  any  kind,  and  now  he  must  needs 
write  me  this  idiotic  love-letter,  and  put  an  end  to  it  !  put 
a  beginning,  I  suppose  I  should  rather  say — which  is  it  to 
be  %  Perhaps  if  I  sleep  upon  it  I  shall  feel  happier  in  the 
morning.  'Night  brings  good  counsel,'  the  French  pro- 
verb says.  I  suppose  I  can't  be  so  very  much  in  love  with 
him,  or  I  shouldn't  hesitate  at  all.  I  should  like  to  ask 
somebody's  advice  about  it — some  one  of  my  own  age,  who 
knows  exactly  what  it  is  to  be  in  love,  who  has  had  the 
complaint  recently,  like  my  aunt  and  her  friends,  who  are 
always  comparing  experiences  of  their  last  illness — but  I 
don't  quite  know  whom  to  ask.     Not  Rose  Leigh,  for  I 


250  TJie  Reliquary 

believe  she  is  more  than  half  in  love  with  Frank  herself  — 
I  don't  know  that  that  matters,  though — she  might  be  all 
the  better  able  to  judge.  Not  Carrie  Macdonald,  for  sltp- 
has  the  most  extraordinary  ideas.  I've  heard  her  say  that 
one  can  only  be  in  love  once  in  a  lifetime — now  I  know 
for  a  fact  that  isn't  true  ! 

Well,  well,  I  must  struggle  out  of  it  myself,  I  suppose, 
as  best  I  may.  At  any  rate,  if  I  am  on  the  eve  of  such  an 
important  crisis  in  my  life,  I  think  that  before  going  to 
sleep  I  ought  to  put  my  papers  in  order — how  grand  that 
sounds  I  Yes,  I  must  turn  out  my  secret  drawer — my 
drawer  of  relics — all  my  precious  souvenirs  that  have  been 
lying  there  and  accumulating  with  astonishing  rapidity  for 
the  last  five  years,  since  my  eighteenth  birthday  !— and 
now  I  am  going  to  tear  them  up,  throw  them  away,  forget 
all  the  love  affairs  I've  ever  had,  and  subside  into  an  ugly, 
commonplace  matron.  Oh,  how  many  things  !  I  declare 
I've  almost  forgotten  what  they  all  are.  I  wish  I  had 
written  their  names  on  them  when  I  put  them  away,  as 
mamma  does  on  her  jams  in  the  summer. 

What  on  earth  is  this  ?  a  piece  of  broken  pencil.  That 
must  be  here  by  mistake.  I'll  throw  it  away — no — stay — 
surely  I  remember  something  about  it — what  was  it  ? 
Oh  !  (laughing)  oh — I  remember — it  must  be  Bertie 
FitzWilliam's  !  Poor  Bertie,  what  a  dear  good  creature 
he  was,  and  how  stupid  !  a  great  immense  fellow,  with  a 
deep  voice,  and  no  more  ideas  than — than  a  soldier  gene- 
rally has  !  and  so  shy,  so  shy.  Declaring  his  love  was  an 
expression  which  could  by  no  possibility  be  applied  to  him. 
He  insinuated  it,  perhaps,  hinted  at  it,  made  distant  allu- 
sions to  it,  but  as  to  declaring  it,  it  was  a  great  deal  too 
much  for  him,  in  spite  of  his  being  six  feet  two. 

I  shall  never  forget  him,  that  last  evening — we  were 
staying  in  a  country  house,  where  there  had  been  a  lawn 
tennis  tournament  in  the  afternoon — he  and  I  were  drawn 


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to  play  together— lie  put  me  in  the  cornei'  of  the  court  and 
took  everything  himself,  and  we  won.  I  was  so  proud  ! 
In  the  evening  there  was  a  great  ball — I  danced  nine 
times  with  him,  I  remember — and  then  I  discovered  that 
the  poor  creature  actually  thought  I  cared  about  him  ! 
We  were  sitting  in  the  conservatory,  after  a  waltz — he 
certainly  did  waltz  most  divinely  !  when  he  suddenly  said, 
blushing  violently,  in  a  very  hoarse,  deep  voice,  'Miss 
Beverley,  I  have  something  to  say  to  you.'  '  Indeed  % '  I 
said,  smiling  sweetly,  'I  am  very  glad  of  that.'  'Yes  — 
I  have  something  to  say  to  you.'  '  I  should  not  have 
thougnt  it,'  T  replied,  after  waiting  a  moment  to  see  if 
anything  came.  '  Can't  you  guess  what  it  is  ? '  he  said, 
becoming  more  and  more  strangled.  '  Certainly  not,'  I 
answered,  airily.  '  Can't  you  really  guess,  Miss  Beverley  % ' 
'  Haven't  an  idea  ! '  and  I  suppose  the  entire  blank  of  my 
expression  must  have  quenched  his  hopes  at  once  and  for 
ever — for,  after  sitting  for  a  moment,  speechless,  like  a 
design  for  an  image  of  misery  to  be  executed  on  a  colossal 
scale,  he  seized  my  ball  programme,  saying,  '  Give  me 
something  that  has  belonged  to  you — something  that  has 
touched  your  hand  :  give  me  this.'  Such  was  his  agita- 
tion, and  .such  the  size  of  his  hands,  that  he  broke  the 
pencil  in  two,  and  left  this  half  of  it  in  my  lap,  and  then — 

he  fled  !     Poor    Bertie,  he  is  married  now I  hate 

those  sandy-haired  women  with  light  eyelashes  !  No,  I 
don't  think  I  can  throw  away  that  pencil,  after  I've  had  it 
all  these  years.  \Puts  it  hack. 

What  is  this  ?  [Taking  up  letter!]  '  My  own  dearest 
darling ' — that  sounds  affectionate  !  [Looks  at  signature.] 
O'Grady — Captain  O'Grady,  of  course!  — he  was  a  lieu- 
tenant then — I  had  forgotten  his  very  existence  !  [Look- 
ing over  letter.]  This  is  exactly  the  way  he  used  to  talk — 
I  fancy  I  can  hear  his  Irish  brogue  now  !  [Read.<]  '  My 
own  dearest  darling, — I    am  leaving  you,  it  may  be  for 


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years.'  (That's  an  original  expression  !)  'I  am  going  to  India, 
to  win  honour  and  renown — but  oh,  my  darling,  the  fiercest 
sun  that  ever  blazed  in  the  East  is  but  cool  compared  to 
the  burning,  consuming  flame  of  love  that  tills  my  heart  ! 
The  wildest  tiger  that  ever  leaped  in  the  jungle  is  tame 
compared  to  the  unconquerable  ardour  of  my  passion  ! 
Think  of  me,  dear,  when  you  are  at  home  at  ease.'  (Another 
original  remark  !)  '  Think  of  me  beneath  the  scorching 
sun  of  India,  scaling  the  snow-capped  Himalayas,  track- 
ing the  wary  crocodile,  subduing  the  mighty  elephant — 
think  of  me,  braving  every  hardship,  every  danger  life  can 
afford,  that  I  may  gather  fame,  riches,  and  glory,  to  lay 
them  at  your  feet ! '  Ha,  ha  !  he  never  did  produce  any 
of  them  to  lay  at  my  feet,  poor  fellow.  Perhaps  the  wary 
crocodile  was  too  much  for  him  after  all  !  \Puts  the  letter 
hack  'tmth  the  othersJ\  I  don't  think  I  can  tear  it  up,  for 
if  I  were  to  find  he  had  been  eaten  by  a  tiger,  I  should 
never  forgive  myself  ! 

What  is  this  printed  paper  1  Royal  Institution — a  list 
of  lectures  !  It  looks  much  too  learned  for  the  company  it 
is  in.  I  wonder  how  I  came  to  get  hold  of  it,  for  I  don't 
think  /  ever  attended  one  of  those  lectures  in  my  life. 
With  all  my  faults,  I  don't  think  I  ever  went  through  the 
phase  of  suddenly  taking  a  deep  interest  in  some  learned 
or  artistic  subject  that  I  cared  nothing  about,  and  pursuing 
it  hotly  for  a  season  at  a  time,  as  I  have  seen  various  of 
my  friends  doing  !  [^Looks  at  paper.'\  And  yet  there  must 
be  some  reason  for  my  having  this.  [Sees  name  on  it.^ 
Ah,  I  see.  Professor  Schmitz  was  to  lecture — it  was  that 
funny  little  German  who  took  such  a  fancy  to  me  !  Nice 
little  man  he  was,  and  most  amusing  to  listen  to,  with  his 
broken  English  and  foreign  expressions,  until  he  became 
so  silly  about  me  :  then,  of  course,  all  the  sense  went  out 
of  him. 

The  fact  is,  I  never  can  keep  my  men  friends,  because 


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just  as  we  have  got  to  know  one  another  well,  they  fall  in 
love  with  me,  propose  to  lue,  I  refuse  them,  and  there  is 
an  end  of  it  !  I  am  always  so  unfortunate  in  that  way. 
I  wonder  why  ?  It  isn't  that  I  am  so  very  pretty — rather 
pretty,  perhaps,  but  not  enough  to  account  for  everything 
— and  I'm  quite  sure  I'm  not  clever,  for  even  the  Professor, 
who  was  in  love  with  me,  used  to  be  in  despair  because  I 
couldn't  understand  his  learned  talk.  Perhaps  there  is  a 
'  charm '  about  me  !  Yes,  that  must  be  it  !  That  is 
what  people  always  say  when  they  wish  to  praise  a  woman 
who  is  neither  pretty,  nor  amusing,  nor  anything  else — 
'  there  is  such  an  indefinable  charm  about  her  ! ' 

Why,  here  is  a  letter  from  the  Professor,  put  away 
with  the  programme — in  such  a  funny  little  cramped 
German  writing  !  \Reads\  '  Honoured  Fraulein  ! ' — why 
do  Germans  always  put  a  note  of  exclamation  after  the 
beginning  of  their  letters,  I  wonder  ?  perhaps  it  is  be- 
cause they  are  astonished  at  finding  they  can  write  one 
at  all — and  I  don't  wonder,  with  the  crabbed  little  charac- 
ters they  use  ! — 'I  send  you  the  programme  of  a  soon-to- 
be-delivered-and-I-hope-a-little-interesting-to-you  lecture 
at  the  Royal  Institution.  She  treats  of  a  subject  of  whom 
certainly  you  have  heard,  and  which  I  think  will  to  you  in 
the  highest  pleasure  and  interest  bring.  Her  name  is  "  The 
Unconscious  Cerebration  of  Tadpoles,  and  the  Influence  of 
their  Brain  Development  on  the  Intelligence  of  Man."  She 
has  been  through-translated  into  English  by  one  of  your 
learned  Herr-Professors,  by  reason  of  the  English  technical 
words,  in  which  it  fails  me  of  readiness,  spite  my  being 
able,  as  you  well  know,  in  daily  life  English  to  speak  like 
German.'  (That  is  very  true  — no  one  can  deny  that  /)  '  I 
hope  then,  dear  Fraulein,  that  you  will  make  me  the 
honour  of  hearing  my  lecture.  I  have  been  having  the 
pleasure  of  speaking  her  already  last  Thursday,  before  a 
numberfuU   and  mixed-up  audience.       I  hope  then,   dear 


2  54  TJie  Reliquary 

Fraulein,  that  you  will  come,  and  that  you  will  Ijiing  some 
of  your  friends  with,  to  listen  also.' 

Ha,  ha  ! — I  don't  think  I  can  wade  through  any  more 
of  this  effusion,  especially  all  this  romantic  nonsense  at  the 
end.  Oh  dear,  how  funny  it  is — '  any  of  your  friends  with  ' 
— so  exactly  what  he  used  to  say  !  I  fancy  I  can  see  him 
now,  at  my  mother's  afternoons,  handing  about  the  five 
o'clock  tea  in  a  state  of  cheerful  bustle,  and  saying  in  an 
insinuating  manner  with  his  head  on  one  side,  '  Some  shucar 
with  ? '  '  A  leetle  milk  with  % '  Poor  little  man  !  I  never 
saw  him  again  after  I  received  that  letter  ! — he  never  for- 
gave me  for  not  attending  his  lecture  !  I  sliall  keep  the 
programme  and  letter,  though — to  show  how  foolish  even  a 
wise  man  can  be  when  he  is  in  love  ! 

[7\irns  over  papers — takes  out  a  photograph,  her /ace 
changes. 

Ah  ! — what  is  this  ?  an  old  photograph  of  me,  with  two 
■words  written  across  it  :  '  Until  death  I '  Until  death, 
indeed,  it  was  !  the  sight  of  it  gives  me  a  stab — I  feel  my 
heart-string  stighten  as  I  look  at  it — my  poor  Fred  ! — w'hy, 
why  was  I  so  foolish^ — why  was  I  so  weak — why  did  I 
let  them  send  him  away  from  me,  because,  forsooth,  he 
was  poor  !  Ah,  if  it  were  now,  when  I  am  older,  braver 
than  I  was  then,  I  would  have  insisted  on  my  right  to 
choose  him — to  follow  him  to  the  end  of  the  world  !  Ah, 
it  is  very  well  to  say,  as  I  foolishly  said  just  now,  that  we 
can  love  many  times — No,  it  is  not  true,  no,  we  cannot — 
not  with  the  overmastering  passion  that  comes  to  us  but 
once  !  I  may  have  cared,  in  a  way,  have  thought  myself 
in  love  with  this  one  or  that  one — but  Fred — Fred  was 
myself — he  belonged  to  me,  and  I  to  him,  from  the  first 
moment  we  met — it  was  as  natural  as  that  the  sun  should 
shine,  or  the  trees  bud  in  the  spring.  .  .  . 

Fred,  Fred  !  Ah  !  that  day,  the  last  day  we  ever  had 
together — the  day  they  sent  you  from  me  !  we  had  been  so 
happy  that  afternoon —  we  had  walked  under  the  trees  like 


The  Reliquary  255 

two  children,  hardly  conscious  of  the  world  around  us, 
except  to  feel  what  a  beautiful  world  it  is,  and  what  great 
happiness  there  is  in  it  for  those  who  love — and  then,  my 
father  came  home — you  went  to  him — oh,  he  laughed  at 
your  tale — he  laughed  at  your  youthful  passion — he  bade 
you  leave  me  for  two  years.  Oh,  Fred,  I  almost  wish  you 
had  not  come  back  to  me  that  day,  to  whisper  to  me  your- 
self what  our  fate  was  to  be,  for  whenever  I  think  of  you 
I  see  you  with  the  white,  stony,  despairing  face  I  saw 
then.  .  •  .  [Speaking  low  and  rapid^y.^  He  went  away — 
to  Africa — he  fought  there — he  rushed  purposely  into  the 
thickest  of  the  fight  at  Ulundi — he  was  found  there  after 
the  battle,  lying  dead  amongst  the  dead — the  portrait  of 
me  on  his  breast,  his  hand  resting  on  it  as  though  with  his 
latest  strength  he  had  striven  to  take  it  out,  to  look  on  it 
with  those  dear  eyes,  that  could  no  longer  see.  No,  no, 
this  I  cannot  destroy — '  until  death,'  too,  it  shall  be  mine — 
and  yet  I  must  not  look  on  it  again,  for  the  sight  of  his 
■writing,  the  mere  thought  of  his  name  sends  a  quiver  through 
my  whole  being.  .  .  .  [After  a  minute  rouses  herself,  turns 
over  papers  listlessly^  then  pushes  them  away.'\  No,  I  can- 
not look  over  these  to-night — my  merry  mood  is  gone — they 
have  lain  here  so  long,  they  may  e'en  remain  a  little  longer, 
and  yet  I  shall  no  longer  be  fi'ee  now  [Half -shuddering^  — 
is  it  safe  to  leave  the  ghosts  of  my  past  life  to  rise  at  any 
moment  1  No,  I  will  destroy  them  all.  I  will  burn  the 
"whole  heap  of  them  without  looking  at  one  of  them  again, 
lest  some  tender  recollection  should  bid  me  stay  my  hand. 

[Pushes  them,  into  a  heap. 

And  yet,  what  a  pity  it  seems [A  paper  falls  from  the 

heap  at  her  feet — she  picks  it  up^  What  is  this  ?  Why,  here 
is  the  letter  I  had  this  morning  from  Frank.  I  wonder  how 
it  got  in  here  ?  I  need  not  keep  that,  I  suppose — for  if — 
if  I  send  that  letter  of  mine  [  With  a  sigh]  I  shall  hear  often 
enough  from  him  for  the  next  few  months,  and  then— and 
then — oh,  I  know  exactly  how  it  will  be. 


256  The  Reliquary 

Maggie  Brice  used  to  show  me  the  letters  she  had  from 
her  husband  when  they  were  engaged — such  long  delightful 
letters,  eight  or  ten  pages,  full  of  poetry  and  passion,  and 
all  that  kind  of  thing.  I  have  seen  some  of  those  he  writes 
to  her  now,  after  they  have  been  married  two  years — half 
a  sheet  of  note  paper.  *  I  shall  be  home  on  Wednesday  by 
the  nine  train,  and  shall  want  supper,'  or  '  Tlie  man  forgot 
to  put  up  my  dress  clothes,  send  them  after  me — dusty 
journey — the  sandwiches  were  stale  ! ' 

Good  heavens  !  it  is  enough  to  make  the  gods  weep  ! 
Can  it  be  that  this  is  the  sort  of  thing  that  awaits  tne,  %  that 
this  is  the  bondage  into  which  I  am  so  madly  rushing  ?  No, 
no,  my  every  conception  of  life  would  be  turned  upside 
down.  I  should  have  to  grovel  where  I  have  commanded. 
/,  who  all  my  life  have  been  petted  and  adored,  would  have 
daily  to  minister  to  the  comforts  of  some  one  else  !  oh,  the 
thought  is  too  fearful  !  I  simply  couldn't  endure  it  !  To 
think  that  I,  with  my  own  hand,  should  have  signed  away 
my  freedom  !  [7'aA;es  ui)  the  Utter  she  has  written.^  Happily 
the  letter  is  not  sent  yet — it  can  be  recalled — it  shall  be 
recalled  !  this,  and  no  other,  is  the  letter  I  will  destroy  — 
this  shall  be  the  burnt-offering  I  will  make  to  the  past  ! 
[Tears  up  letter — throws  pieces  on  ground — stands  a  mament 
looking  at  themi\  There,  I  can  again  feel  I  belong  to  no  one 
but  myself  !  it  is  delightful,  of  course,  to  be  free  -  oh  yes  — 
I  am  glad  I  have  done  it,  very  glad.  I  can't  help  feeling  a 
little  flat,  though,  all  the  same. 

I  should  have  been  happy  with  Frank,  I  am  sure,  very 
happy  indeed— and  after  all,  even  if  he  did  write  to  me  to 
order  his  meals  for  him,  I  think — I  think  I  should  have 
enjoyed  doing  it  for  him,  I  really  should — it  would  be  so 
much  more  satisfactory  to  feel  there  is  some  one  in  the 
world  whose  existence  revolves  round  one's  own.  I  should 
hate  to  feel  I  was  not  first  with  anyone  in  the  world.  .  .  . 
And  after  all,  I  can't  go  on  refusing  people  for  ever — it 


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isn't  as  if  they  went  on  being  in  love  with  me  either,  it 
wouldn't  matter  so  much  then — but  the  moment  I've  re- 
fused them,  they  go  and  marry  somebody  else.  I  never  saw 
anything  like  it  !  if  I  don't  marry  in  self-defence  I  shall 
degejierate  into  an  aunt  —absolutely  only  an  aunt.  Oh,  no  ! 
That  would  be  worse  than  anything  !  I  should  have  no 
one  to  take  care  of  me,  to  look  after  me. 

Frank  would  take  care  of  me,  I  know — he  always  does 
now,  at  least.  How  nice  he  was  at  that  picnic  at  Maiden- 
head the  other  day,  when  he  carried  my  wraps,  and  helped 
me  across  the  stream  !  I  wonder  if  he  would  do  that  after 
we  were  married  %  Yes,  I'm  sure  he  would.  And  yet,  I 
remember  noticing  that  day  that  Mrs.  Merewether  had  to 
cross  the  brook  by  herself — her  husband  was  helping  Mrs. 
Humphrey,  while  Mr.  Humphrey  was  taking  charge  of 
Lady  Scott  !  still,  I  don't  think  that  could  ever  happen  to 
me,  for  Frank  is  not  like  anyone  else  in  the  world — no,  no, 
he  certainly  is  not. 

I  have  thrown  away  the  chance  of  happiness  that  lay 

beneath  my  hand.     I  have  torn  my  letter  up.     How  could 

I  ?  .  .  After  all,  why  should  I  not  write  it  over  again?   No 

one  need  ever  know  I  hesitated.    I  will  tell  Frank,  perhaps, 

some  day,  but  nobody  else  .  .  .  yes — I  will  write  it  again  ! 

YFakes  a  sheet  of  paper  quickly,  to  iv  rite  — as  she  does 

so,  pushes  the  vJiole  heap  of  jiapers,  &c.,  she  has  been 

looking  at  into  a  basket  beneath. 

Curtain. 


258 


THE  WATEEPEOOF 

A   MONOLOGUE. 

Ah  !  Now  I  have  got  home  I  can  take  off  this  miser- 
able waterproof  of  Mrs.  Mowbray's.  I  do  hate  wearing 
other  people's  things.  I  can't  think  why  she  insisted  on 
my  borrowing  it,  except  that  there  are  some  people  who 
always  will  lend  you  things  you  don't  want  to  have.  'Oh, 
you  really  must  have  a  waterproof,'  she  kept  saying — *  it 
is  going  to  rain  heavily,  and  you  will  get  so  wet  jumping 
in  and  out  of  hansoms.'  Cat !  After  all,  she  wouldn't 
have  had  a  carriage  herself  if  Mr.  Mowbray  had  not  made 
all  his  money  in  tea— and  he  looked  so  exactly  that  sort  of 
man,  with  a  red  face,  and  little  sandy-grey  whiskers  ! 
Why  she  should  have  made  such  a  fuss  about  him  after  he 
died  I  can't  imagine.  \Laying  cloak  on  chair. 

There,  now  I've  got  rid  of  that  horrid  thing.  Some 
one  Avas  saying  just  now — who  was  it  1  Oh,  I  know,  it 
was  Mrs.  Mowbray  herself  :  that  woman  is  always  trying 
to  say  something  learned — that  menkind  are  divided  into 
groups  by  the  shapes  of  their  heads.  That's  the  kind  of 
thing  that  is  quite  useless  to  know,  and  I  consider  it 
indecent  to  talk  about  in  a  drawing-room.  I  am  sure  that 
womenkind  are  divided  into  groups  by  the  shapes  of  their 
waterproofs— and  when  I  see  a  woman  with  one  of  those 
hideous,  old-fashioned,  round  shiny  things  on,  I  know 
exactly  what  she  would  say — if  I  were  to  talk  to  her,  that 
is  ;  but  I  never  would,  for  I  don't  want  to  hear  about  the 


The  Waterproof  259 

outbreak  of  whooping-cough  at  Jacky's  school,  or  how 
much  more  susceptible  to  infection  Minnie  is  than  Polly. 
On  the  other  band,  I  dare  say  that  the  woman  who  wears 
a  waterproof  with  silk  outside,  and  a  hood  lined  with  red, 
would  be  more  dangerous  in  some  respects,  though  perhaps 
more  agreeable.  As  to  Mrs.  Mowbray,  she  is  neither  the 
one  thing  nor  the  other ;  she  is  half-way  between  the 
dowdy  and  the  dangerous.  \LooTiing  at  cloak. 

I  can't  quite  make  her  out.  It  is  very  odd,  but  I  don't 
believe  she  likes  me.  I  wonder  why  not  %  I  hate  the 
woman  myself,  of  course  :  to  me  she  is  a  most  dreary 
creature.  She  never  has  anything  interesting  to  say  about 
people,  only  the  most  meaningless  praise.  I  am  told  that 
everyone  confides  their  private  affairs  to  her.  There  are 
some  women  who  have  that  sort  of  mission — to  be  a  sort 
of  friend  of  all  work,  as  it  were— a  kind  of  aunt  to  the 
human  race.  Well,  those  people  are  useful  sometimes  ! 
Just  at  this  juncture  I  rather  want  a  confidante,  for  I 
asked  Major  Symonds  for  two  days  for  reflection.  This  is 
the  second — what  am  I  going  to  say  to  him  ?  Why  do  I 
hesitate,  I  wonder  %  Why  did  I  not  say  yes  at  once  ?  Bte 
is  pleasant — oh,  certainly  pleasant  enough — I  don't  like 
people  who  are  oppressively  intellectual — and  his  sister  has 
told  me  that  he  is  not  nearly  so  passionate  as  he  used  to 
be.  He  doesn't  look  very  soldierly,  perhaps,  but  I  don't 
mind  that — in  fact,  I  think  a  warlike  air  is  misplaced  in 
a  drawing-room.  He  looked  quite  presentable  at  Lady 
Brightwell's  At  Home,  I  thought.  We  were  coming  down- 
stairs together — at  least,  we  were  not  together  at  that 
moment,  for  I  was  coming  down  alone,  and  I  saw  him  also 
alone.  And  it  is  so  odd  for  a  soldier,  he  sometimes  has 
those  tits  of  shyness.  I  don't  know  what  else  it  could 
have  been,  he  seemed  really  afraid  to  meet  my  eye.  He 
was  turning  his  head  away,  as  though  he  didn't  dare  to 
speak — but  of  course  I  saw  how  it  was^  and  felt  it  would 

S2 


26o  TJie  Waterproof 

\y^  only  kiud  to  come  to  his  help,  so  I  suggested  to  him 
that  we  should  go  in  to  supper  together.  I  saw  how  grate- 
ful he  was  to  me.  Then,  while  we  had  supper,  we  began 
talking  about  all  sorts  of  things  I  thought  would  please 
him  — about  the  sadness  of  being  lonely,  and  of  wanting  a 
companion — and  I  told  him  I  saw  he  was  lonely  sometimes, 
and  that  I  was  sorry  for  him.  And  then  he  said,  '  Mrs. 
Story,  you  ai-e  quite  right,  indeed,  you  are  right — it  is  a 
terrible  thing  to  be  alone  at  my  time  of  life.'  Su^'h  non- 
sense to  speak  in  that  way — his  time  of  life,  indeed  !  He's 
much  too  young  to  talk  like  that — I  don't  consider  that 
people  arrive  at  a  '  time  of  life '  till  they're  well  over  sixty, 
certainly  not  at  fifty -two.  He  said,  '  I  have  made  up  my 
mind  not  to  be  lonely  any  longer.  Do  you  think — would 
it  be  possible  that  I  could  find  anyone  to  share  my  soli- 
tude % — that  a  battered  old  soldier  like  me  would  have 
any  chance  ? '  A  battered  old  soldier,  indeed  !  If  he  is 
battered,  it's  nature  and  the  east  winds  in  the  streets  of 
London  that  have  done  it — I  don't  believe  he  has  ever 
been  further  afield  than  Wimbledon  Common,  '  Battered  ! ' 
I  exclaimed.  '  Oh,  my  dear  Major  Symonds  ! '  He  looked 
pleased,  certainly — pleased  and  soothed.  There  are  some 
women  who  know  exactly  the  right  thing  to  say,  and  I  am 
one  of  them.  '  Well,'  he  said,  trying  to  look  modest,  '  I 
iTQUst  say  I  thought  the  other  day,  when  I  was  with  Mrs. 

Mowbray '  and  he  stopped.     '  With  Mrs.  Mowbray  ! ' 

I  cried.  '  But  what  has  she  to  do  with  this  question  % ' 
He  said  nothing.  He  smiled  rather  inanely,  I  must  con- 
fess. I  saw  at  once  how  it  was— he  had  been  making  a 
confidante  of  that  woman,  and  telling  her  about  me.  It 
was  indiscreet  of  him,  of  course,  but  I  don't  know  that  I 
minded  it — in  fact,  I  was  rather  pleased,  as  I  am  quite 
sure  it  must  have  annoyed  her. 

At  this  moment  we  were  interrupted  by  two  dowagers 
looking  for  seats,   who   came  and  stood  behind  us,   until 


TJie  Waterproof  261 

they  positively  lifted  us  from  our  chairs  by  the  force  of 
their  glare,  so  we  could  say  nothing  more.  '  I  will  give 
you  an  answer  the  day  after  to-morrow,'  I  .^aid  hurriedly, 
as  we  went  out  through  the  hall.  This  is  Monday,  come 
to  see  me  at  five  o'clock  on  Wednesday.'  He  said  no- 
thing— I  left  him  looking  absolutely  vacant,  as  I  must  say 
he  does  sometimes.  I  suppose  he  was  taken  aback  at  the 
dtlay.  And  now,  this  is  4.30  on  Wednesday — what  am  I 
going  to  say  to  him  ?  Let  me  look  back  into  the  past. 
Ah,  I  have  too  many  broken  hearts  on  my  conscience  to 
dare  to  bear  the  burden  of  another  ! 

There  was  Douglas  Benson,  a  barrister,  brilliant  and 
successful — what  a  life  to  have  ruined  !  There  was  no 
doubt  about  his  feelings.  AVhenever  he  was  in  my  society 
he  was  a  prey  to  the  deepest  melancholy.  I  never  shall 
forget  that  night  that  we  dined  at  Maidenhead  with  the 
Tollemaches.  I  felt  I  must  endeavour  to  dispel  his  gloom, 
and  after  dinner  I  offered  to  go  with  Lim  for  a  row  on  the 
river.  T  saw  his  inward  struggle — he  dared  not  expose 
himself  to  the  fatal  temptation — but  I  nerved  myself  to 
the  effort  for  his  sake.  It  was  no  uie  :  the  cloud  settled 
darker,  darker  on  his  features.  He  could  not  trust  him- 
self to  speak.  We  never  met  again  after  that  evening. 
What  became  of  him  I  dared  not  ask  ;  I  was  haunted  by 
the  thought  of  those  dark,  lowering  features  ! 

Then  there  was  Lionel  Talbot.  What  a  handsome 
fellow  he  was  ! — the  very  type  of  a  British  sailor.  Ah, 
that  time  at  Portsmouth,  when  thjy  gave  a  farewell  dance 
on  board  his  ship  !  I  saw  what  he  wanted — what  he  was 
evidently  longing  to  suggest,  and  let  him  understand  in 
covert  terms  that  I  would  overcome  my  dread  of  the  sea  to 
gratify  his  parting  wish.  But  he  was  too  noble,  poor 
fellow,  too  heroic.  He  replied  that  there  were  'some 
things  too  precious  to  expose  to  the  fury  of  the  elements.' 
Ah,  he   was  right  there  !     It  was  his   last   voyage.     His 


262  The  Waterproof 

ship  was  lost  in  the  midst  of  the  Pacific  Ocean,  and   he 
died,  breathing  my  name — at  least,  I  have  no  doubt  he  did  - 
breathe  it,  though  I  shall  never,  never  know. 

But  why  should  I  melt  my  heart  by  dwelling  on  these 
tender  memories,  instead  of  steeling  it  to  be  firm  and 
valiant  ?  It  is  an  awful  thing  to  have  to  make  up  one's 
mind.  I  could  almost  be  sorry  to-day  that  I  have  no 
chattering  female  friends  to  whom  I  am  in  the  habit  of 
telling  everything.  Like  my  Cousin  Lucy,  for  instance— I 
know  as  a  fact  that  if  any  interesting  crisis  happens  in  her 
life,  she  has  to  sit  down  and  write  it  to  eleven  intimate 
female  friends,  with  whom  she  has  sworn  to  exchange  every 
thought.  And  there  is  Mrs.  Mowbray,  who  is  in  the  same 
position  as  regards  Mrs.  Faushawe.  I  have  heard  that  not 
only  do  these  two  tell  each  other  everything,  but  they  also 
send  each  other  all  the  letters  they  receive  from  other 
people.  In  fact,  I  believe  that  if  one  of  them  wei'e  to 
receive  a  proposal,  she  would  send  it  to  the  other  to  know 
what  she  was  to  say.     I  call  that  really  immodest. 

Ah  !  \sigh%ng\  and  that  brings  me  back  to  the  question 
I  ought  to  be  considering  all  this  time.  What  must  I  say 
to  Major  Symonds  ?  What  must  I  do  ?  Ah  !  I  fear  I  have 
no  doubt  I  have  most  foolishly  suffered  myself  to  be  melted 
by  dwelling  thus  upon  the  past.  I  must  accept  him— yes, 
I  must — for  I  couldn't  break  another  heart,  I  really  couldn't. 

\Is  going  to  dry  her  eyes. 

Why,  where  is  my  handkerchief  ?  Oh,  of  course,  I  must 
have  left  it  in  the  pocket  of  that  wretched  waterproof. 

\Fe,els  in  pocket  of  waterproof — pulls  out  two  letters 
with  handkerchief. 

What  are  these  ?     These  are  not  mine.       \IjOoks  at  one. 

'  DEAii  Mrs.  Mowbray, — '  It  is  in  tlie  handwriting  or 
Major  Symonds  ! 

\Closes  her  hand  on  it,   and  stands  for  a  minule 
irresolute. 


The  Waterproof  263 

It  is  as  I  thought — he  evidently  wrote  to  her  about  me. 
Well,  one  can  hardly  blame  him,  poor  fellow,  for  seeking  a 
friend's  advice  at  this  crisis— this  most  momentous  crisis  ! 
Oh,  I  really  must  read  it.  I  shall  like  to  see  how  he  speaks 
of  me  to  others.  \Opens  it  with  a  coy  smile. 

'  Dear  Mrs.    Mowbray, — You   will  know — you  must 

know — the  subject  on  which  I  am  writing  to  you ' 

[Reads  on — shrieks. 

Ah,  the  base  treachery  !  That  wicked,  deceiving  woman  ! 
Oh,  my  poor  friend,  that  he  should  have  been  caught  in  her 
toils.  Ah,  how  powerless  a  man  is  when  a  designing,  shame- 
less woman  entraps  him  !  This,  then,  was  why  he  turned 
despairingly  to  me  that  night — he  sought  for  succour,  for 
rescue,  and  I,  cold-hearted,  cruel  that  I  was,  refused  it. 
Ah,  why  did  I  not  answer  him  then  and  there  ?  Why  did 
I  not  cleave  to  my  place,  though  all  the  dowagers  in 
England  stood  behind  it  ?  Well,  well,  his  destiny  would 
have  been  different  with  me.  He  has,  in  despair  at  my 
seeming  coldness,  proposed  to  another  woman  out  of  pique 
— his  manly  heart  has  been  caught  at  the  rebound.     [SiyJis. 

It  is  as  well,  perhaps,  for  in  a  moment  of  yielding  I 
might  have  fettered  myself  for  ever. 

\Walks  up  and  down — her  eye  falls   on  the  other 
letter. 

Ah  !  I  had  forgotten  this  one.  I  wonder  what  surprise 
this  contains.  [Picks  it  up — looks  at  signature. 

'  Lina  Fanshawe.'  Of  course — it  is  one  of  the  dozen 
letters  she  sends  to  her  dear  friend  every  day. 

'  Darling  Mabel, — '  Ugh  !  that  makes  me  quite  sick, 
it  really  does  !  '  I  return  Major  Symonds'  letter,  which  has 
amused  me  excessively.'  Coarse,  insolent  woman.  '  Imagine 
his  proposing  to  you  !  I  am  so  glad  you  refused  him — how 
could  he  ever  think  you  would  do  anything  else  1 '  What, 
she  has  refused  him  !  Refused  !  well,  so  much  the  worse 
for  her.     She  has  not  caught  him  at  the  rebound  then — 


264  TJie  Waterproof 

Ills  heroic  sacrifice  has  not  been  accepted.  Let  me  see 
what  else  she  says.  '  I  only  hope  he  won't  be  as  broken- 
hearted over  it  as  Douglas  Benson  was.  Do  you  remember 
that  night  you  refused  him  at  Maidenhead  % '  What,  I 
drove  him  too  into  madness  by  my  cruelty  !  It's  well 
for  him  she  refused  him.     "What  an  escape  he  has  had  ! 

[Beads. 
'  And  now  I  must  congratulate  you,   dearest,   on  the 

good  news  you  tell  me — the  return  of '  What !    'Lionel 

Talbot  ! '  His  return  !  '  What  a  hero  he  will  be  when  he 
comes  back,  after  being  supposed  to  be  drowned  :  such  a 
hero  that  I  imagine  that  you  will  no  longer  hesitate  to ' — 
ah,  it  is  impossible  ! — '  to  announce  your  engagement.' 
Lionel  Talbot  alive — not  dead-  and  engaged  to  Mrs. 
Mowbray  !  Well,  I  dare  say  even  that  is  better  than  lying 
at  the  bottom  of  the  Pacific— and  yet,  no,  I  am  not  sure 
that  it  is.  Oh,  what  shipwreck  of  all  his  hopes  !  Alas, 
how  many  lives  have  I  ruined  !  But  there  is  one  person, 
at  any  rate,  to  whom  I  can  make  amends.  It  was  I  drove 
Major  Symonds  to  the  desperate  sacrifice  he  attempted,  and 
I  will  reward  him  for  it.  This  decides  me.  It  was  I  who 
well-nigh  seared  and  blighted  his  life — I  will  console  him 
myself  ! 

C 11 7' fain. 


265 


'OH,   XO!' 

A    MOyOLOGl'h. 

I  WAS  a  young  girl  once — not  so  very  long  ago—  a  very  shy 
young  girl — I  smile  now,  as  I  think  of  the  agonies  of 
timidity  and  emban-assment  which  I  used  to  go  through 
every  day — eveiy  hour  almost — with  such  vei-y  inadequate 
cause  !  When  I  first  'came  out ' — when  I  began  to  go  to 
balls,  receptions,  afternoon  teas,  garden  parties — positively 
everyone  who  came  to  speak  to  me  was  a  fresh  source  of 
terror — another  alarming  incarnation  of  society,  before 
whom  I  felt  more  utterly  speechless  and  awkward  than 
words  can  describe.  My  very  heart  used  to  quail  when  I 
saw  good-natured  friends  of  my  mother's  come  up  to  me, 
out  of  sheer  kindness,  I  am  sure,  to  make  small  talk  to  me 
— when  some  courtly  young  man  would  advance  to  put  my 
cup  down,  or  some  still  more  polite  youth  invite  me  to 
dance — I  was  pleased,  of  course — but  oh  !  the-sutferings  I 
underwent  !  I  was  so  shy  on  these  occasions  that  I  could 
absolutely  utter  no  word — and  the  more  I  tried  to  think 
of  something  to  say,  the  more  utterly  did  speech,  thought, 
intelligence  and  everything  else  appear  to  have  departed 
from  me  !  At  last,  unable  to  bear  it  any  longer,  I  confided 
my  sorrows  to  my  mother  one  evening,  as  we  were  going 
out  to  a  ball,  and  asked  her  to  help  me.  '  My  dear  Violet,' 
she  said,  smiling,  'girls  of  seventeen  are  not  expected  to  be 
A'ery  eloquent-  if  you  can  listen  agreeably  when  people  talk 
to  you,  and  make  some  trifling  rejoinder  every  now  and 
again,  that  will  do  quite  well  for  the  present.' 

'  But  that  is  exactly  my  difficulty — I  cant  think  of  any 


266  '  Oh,  No  I ' 

rejoinder — I  am  so  shy,  all  my  ideas  go  away  the  moment 
people  speak  to  me  ! ' 

'  But  surely  you  can  think  of  saying  Oh,  yes — or  Ok,  no 
— as  the  case  may  be — that  is  not  a  great  effort  of  imagi- 
nation ! ' 

'But  I  should  never  know  which  to  say — I  should 
invariably  say  Yes  when  it  ought  to  have  been  JVo — if  I 
only  had  one  answer  that  would  always  do,  then  I  shouldn't 
have  to  think  about  it  at  all.' 

'Well,  I  am  not  sure  that  it  would  be  a  good  plan 
always  to  answer  Yes  to  everything  that  is  said  to  you — 
you  might  find  it  inconvenient  sometimes  ! ' 

'  Then  I  will  say  Oh,  no — that  can  never  commit  me  to 
anything.' 

'  Very  well,'  said  my  mother,  laughing — '  you  had  better 
try  it  to-night,  and  see  how  it  succeeds  ! ' 

So,  thus  provided  with  a  fund  of  conversation,  I  arrived 
at  the  ball  a  little  happier  in  my  mind  than  I  generally  felt 
on  these  occasions,  but  still  with  some  misgivings,  as  usual. 
We  were  received  in  the  drawing-room  by  our  hostess,  Mrs. 
Fenwick,  one  of  the  kindest -hearted  women  in  the  world, 
who  was  at  once  anxious  to  find  me  a  host  of  partners. 
'  Now,  my  dear,  you've  come  prepared  to  enjoy  yourself,  1 
hope — you  don't  mean  to  sit  by  your  mother  all  the  evening, 
as  some  strait-laced  young  ladies  I  know  do  ? ' 

'  Oh,  no  ! ' 

'  You  must  let  me  introduce  a  great  many  partners  to 
you.' 

'  Oh,  no  ! '  \_Deprecatingly. 

'  Nonsense — of  course  I  shall — there  is  my  nephew  just 
arriving — Arthur,  you  know  Miss  Graham — ^  Violet,  I  need 
not  introduce  Captain  Gosset  to  you.' 

'  Oh,  no  ! ' 

'May  I  have  the  pleasure  of  a  waltz  ?  or  is  your  cai-d 
quite  full  1 ' 


'  Oh,  No  I '  267 

'  Oh,  no  ! ' 

'  That  is  delightful — let  us  have  a  turn  now,  before  the 
room  is  too  crowded '—and  ofi'  we  went.  '  I  don't  think  I 
have  ever  had  a  better  waltz  in  my  life,'  he  said  as  we  left 
otF.  '  I  won't  ask  you  if  you  have  enjoyed  it  too — that 
would  be  conceited  of  me  ! ' 

'  Oh,  no  ! ' 

'  We  have  not  met  for  such  ages— I  was  wondering  if 
I  should  ever  see  you  again — not  since  that  day  at  Maiden- 
head, have  we  1 ' 

'  Oh,  no  !  ' 

'  How  delicious  it  was  on  the  river  in  the  evening — and 
what  a  splendid  little  canoe  that  was  I  rowed  you  in  ! 
nothing  so  jolly  as  a  canoe,  is  there  ? ' 

'  Oh,  no  !  ' 

'  I  dare  say,  though,  you've  been  on  the  river  hundreds 
of  times  since,  and  have  forgotten  all  about  that  day  ? ' 

'  Oh,  no  !  ' 

'  What  a  pity — there  is  the  end  of  the  waltz — you  must 
give  me  another  presently — -let  me  see,  there  is  No.  4 — give 
me  No.  9  and  No.  13 — may  I  put  my  name  down  for  those 
— you  don't  think  that  will  be  too  many  1 ' 

'  Oh,  no  ! ' 

'  It  isn't  enough,  /  think  ! ' 

'  Oh,  n '  [Checks  herself. 

'  Let  us  go  out  on  to  the  balcony — or  are  you  afraid  of 
being  too  cold  ? ' 

'  Oh,  no  !  ' 

I  don't  know  how  long  we  remained  on  the  balcony 
— I  am  afraid,  a  long  time.  Presently  Lucy  Fen  wick 
came  out,  with  Mr.  Le  Marchant — by  the  way,  I  believe  it 
was  settled  when  they  were  children,  by  their  mothers, 
that  Lucy  was  to  marry  her  cousin,  Arthur  Gosset,  when 
they  grew  up — people  say  that  Mrs.  Fenwick  is  very 
anxious,  now,  to  bring  it  about.     I  don't  care  about  Lucy 


268  '  Oh,  No  I ' 

very  much — she  talks  and  giggles  so  much,  no  one  knows 
■what  she  is  going  to  say  next.  '  What,  Violet  !  is  this 
where  you  are  1 '  she  cried.  *  Mrs.  Graham  has  been 
wondering  what  had  become  of  you — is  this  where  you 
have  been  all  the  evening  1 ' 

'  Oh,  no  ! ' 

'  Slie  says  it  is  more  than  half  an  hour  since  she  has 
seen  you  !  ' 

*  Oh,  no  \'  1  said  indignantly  as  I  rose. 

'  This  is  our  dance,  I  believe.  No.  9,'  Captain  Gosset 
said,  as  we  stepped  back  into  the  rconi. 

'  Oh,  no  ! '  I  said,  incredulously,  rather  horrihed  at  find- 
ing that  actually  ybttr  dances  had  passed  while  we  were  on 
the  balcony. 

'Indeed  it  is,  T  assure  you,'  he  said;  'don't  let  us 
waste  any  more  of  this  delicious  music  !  .  .  .  .  not  so  nice 
as  it  was  before — too  many  people  now — let  us  go  on  to 
the  balcony  again  !  ' 

'  Oh,  no  !  ' 

'  That  is  very  cruel  of  you — mind  you  don't  forget  that 
you  have  promised  me  No.  13.' 

'  Oh,  no  !  ' 

By  the  time  No.  13  came  round,  I  was  quite  tired  out 
with  dancing,  and  besides,  the  room  was  so  hot  and  crowded 
one  could  hardly  move.  So  Captain  Gosset  suggested  that 
instead  of  dancing  we  should  go  into  the  conservatory, 
which  was  delightfully  cool,  and  quite  empty.  'Jolly 
place,  a  conservatory !  '  he  said — '  fountains  plashing, 
Chinese  lanterns  burning — flowers  smelling  —  and  —  all 
that  I  no  place  like  it  when  you  want  to  talk,  is  there?' 

'Oh,   no!' 

After  this  remark,  however,  Captain  Gosset  relapsed 
into  silence,  instead  of  at  once  breaking  into  the  irresistible 
eloquence  he  had  led  me  to  expect — and  we  both  sat  for 
some  minutes  contemplating  the  fountains,  the  flowers  and 


'  Oh,  No  I '  269 

the  Chiupss  lanterns — which  at  last  appeared  to  have  the 
desired   ellect— for   he    suddenly  said,  'Miss   Graham  ! — 
Violet !  — do  you  mind  my  calling  you  Violet  1 ' 
'  Oh,  no  !  ' 

'  I  am  going  to  India  next  month — it  may  be  years 
before  I  see  you  again ' 

'  Oh,  no  ! '  I  said,  reassuringly. 

*  I  cannot  leave  England  without  speaking  to  you, 
without  telling  you  of  my  love  — for  you  must  know,  you 
must  have  seen  what  I  feel  for  you — have  you  not  guessed 
it  long  ago  1 ' 

'  Oh,  no  !  ' 

'  Nay,  I  am  sure  you  have  !  Violet  -  could  you,  would 
you  endure  the  idea  of  going  out  to  India  1 ' 

'  Oh,  no  ! '  [Decidedl'i/. 

'  What — you  would  not  1 — but  surely  you  must  care  a 
little  for  me  —you  could  not  have  been  to  me  as  you  have 
been,  if  you  did  not  feel  something  more  for  me  than  friend- 
ship 1 ' 

'  Oh,  no  !  ' 

'  Think  over  what  I  have  said,  then — do  not  reject  the 
idea  at  once — give  me  a  little  hope  !  I  am  not  displeasing 
to  you,  am  I  V 

'  Oh,  no  ! ' 

'  Do  you  dislike  a  soldier's  life  ? ' 

'  Oh,  no  ! ' 

'  My  darling  !  how  happy  you  would  make  me '  At 

this  moment  Mrs.  Fenwick  appeared  in  the  doorway. 

'  What,  Violet,  my  dear  child  !  are  you  not  afraid  of 
a  chill,  sitting  in  this  cold  place  1 ' 

'  Oh,  no  ! ' 

'  Have  you  had  any  supper  1 ' 

'  Oh,  no  ! ' 

'  Arthur,  how  neglectful  of  you— do  take  Miss  Graham 
in  to  supper.'    And  so  we  went  into  the  supper-room,  where 


270  '  Oh,  No  ! ' 

there  was  an  immense  crowd,  and  where  Lucy  Fenwick 
kindly  insisted  on  giving  me  up  her  seat,  between  two 
female  friends  of  her  mother's — and  after  supper  we  went 

home. ^^Captain  Gosset  went  to  India,  the  next  month. 

You  will  ask  whether  I  ever  went  there  too  ?  Oh,  no  ! 
Time  and  absence,  new  friends  and  fresh  scenes,  turned 
the  current  of  his  thoughts,  and  brought  healing  to  his  grief. 
His  heart  did  not  break — neither  did  mine.  He  is  now,  I 
believe,  happily  married — so  am  I — so  is  Lucy  Fenwick — 
and  we  are  none  of  us  as  foolish,  or  as  shy,  as  we  were  ten 
years  ago — Oh,  no  !  ! 

Curtain. 


2/1 


KOT  TO  BE  FOEWAEDED 

A    MONOLOGUE. 

Scene. — A  sitting-room  in  chambers.     A  pile  of  unopened 
letters,  papers,  dec,  on  the  table. 

Enter  Dick  Stanley  hurriedly,  in  travelling  costume, 
with  a  bag  in  his  hand. 

Dick.  Ha  !  what  a  comfort  to  be  back  again  in  my 
own  chambers!  this  week  that  I  have  been  out  of  town  has 
seemed  to  me  an  eternity.  What  an  enormous  pile  of 
documents  is  awaiting  me  !  That  is  the  result  of  saying 
nothing  is  to  be  forwarded  during  one's  absence.  It  is 
quite  a  mistake,  not  to  have  things  forwarded.  That  was 
old  Bx'own's  idea.  When  he  heard  I  was  going  out  of 
town  for  a  few  days'  change,  he  said  at  once,  '  Well,  my 
dear  feller,  if  I  were  you,  I  would  say  nothing  is  to  be  sent 
after  me,  otherwise  your  holiday  will  be  no  holiday.  You 
can't  think  what  a  feeling  of  perfect  peace  it  gives  one  to 
be  beyond  reach  oi  the  post  ! '  I  was  fool  enough  to  believe 
him,  and  to  act  on  his  advice— but  it  didn't  give  me  a 
feeling  of  perfect  peace  at  all—  quite  the  reverse  !  It  gave 
me  a  feeling  of  perfect  fever.  I  was  the  whole  time 
wondering  if  my  correspondence,  just  this  week,  might  not 
contain  something  of  vita,l  importance,  that  was  now 
awaiting  me  at  home — if  the  crisis  of  my  fate  might  not 
have  been  reached,  and  if  by  my  idiotic  folly  I  might  not 
have  missed  the  road   to  Fortune  !   not  that  I  had  any 


272  Not  to  be  Forwarded 

reason,  from  past  experience,  to  expect  that  such  a  thing 
would  happen,  for  up  to  now  I  have  been  singularly  free 
from  any  crisis  in  my  fortunes.     I  have  enjoyed  a  complete 
immunity  from  the  feverish  emotions  which  beset  those  of 
my  friends  who  achieve  unexpected  success.     Yes,  there  is 
no  doubt  about  it,  I  have  been  unlucky  from  the  begin- 
ning.   First  of  all,  nothing  could  be  more  unfortunate  than 
having  500/.   a  year  to  live  upon — it  is  neither  the  one 
thing  nor  the  other — it  is   too   much   or   too   little.     In 
secure,  inglorious  possession  of  that  unworthy  pittance,  I 
have  been  debarred    from  all    the   incitements   of   heroic 
poverty.     I  have  never  known  the  joy  of  coming  to  London 
with  a  crust  in  my  pocket,  determined  to  make  my  fortune 
or  starve  uncomprehended  in  a  garret.     No,  mine  has  been 
the  prosaic,  vegetating  existence  of  one  whose  daily  wants 
have  always  been  supplied,  and  no  more — whose   income 
is  sufficient  for  one,  but  not  enough,  alas  !  for  two.      For 
two  .  .  .  yes,  there  is  the  rub  !    It  is  no  good  denying  it  — 
unless  I  can  doable  my  income  by  my  own  exertions,  I  am 
condemned  to  a  life  of  hopeless  celibacy  !     I  shall  see  the 
woman  I  love  carried  off  under  my  eyes  by  a  more  success- 
ful rival,  while  I  am  seeking,  pining,  yearning  for  fame 
and  fortune,  that  I  may  lay  them  at  her  feet.     But  how 
am  I  to  do  it  .'     I  have  sat  for  hours  in  chambers,  waiting 
for  briefs   th.^t  have   never  come.     I  have  written  three 
plays  and  a  novel,  which  have  all  been  refused.     I  tried  to 
get  on  to  the  staff  of  a  newspaper,  which  wouldn't  have 
me.     I  went  on  to  the  Stock  Exchange,  and  embarked  all 
my  available  means  in  a  venture  which  I  was  told  would 
make  my  fortune  ....   it  came  to  grief  next  week.     In 
the  meantime,  the  possibility  of   my  ever  winning   Amy 
Wilton  is  drifting  further  and  further  away  from  me — and 
the  worst  of  it  is,  that  that  fellow  Fortescue,  who  is  always 
dangling  after  Amy,  will  keep  on  succeeding  in  everything 
he  does  !     If  he  sits   in  his  chambers,  solicitors  come  to 


Not  to  be  Forwarded  273 

him  with  fat  briefs  under  their  arms — if  he  were  to  write  a 
play  Irving  would  act  it  to-morrow  —if  he  were  to  speculate, 
it  is  a  dead  certainty  that  his  shares  would  immediately  go 
up  to  100  per  cent.  Well— it's  no  good  getting  excited 
about  it  -I  suppose  some  people  are  luckier  than  others, 
that  is  all.  But  it  certainly  is  an  undoubted  fact,  that 
whenever  a  good  thing  turns  up,  Fortescue  is  always  on 
the  spot,  ready  to  catch  it  and  put  it  in  his  pocket  !  \Turns 
over  papers^  Six  '  St.  James's  Gazettes  '  in  a  heap  !  I've 
escaped  reading  those,  at  any  rate.  I'll  just  look  at  last 
night's,  though,  and  see  if  a  fresh  mare's  nest  has  been 
discovered  by  anybody.  \Looks  at  paper.]  By  Jove  ! 
[Reads  aloud.]  '  An  extraordinary  excitement  was  created 
in  the  City  yesterday  by  a  rapid  and  unexpected  rise  in 
Kimberley  diamond  shares,  brought  about,  it  seems,  by  a 
small  band  of  enterprising  speculators.  The  fortunate 
individuals  who  were  in  possession  of  private  sources  of 
information,  and  had  bought  a  few  days  ago,  at  the  right 
moment,  succeeded,  it  is  said,  in  realising  a  fortune.'  By 
George,  what  a  piece  of  luck  !  That  is  the  kind  of  thing 
that  never  happens  to  me.  [Throws  down  paper.]  Why, 
here's  a  letter  from  old  Smithson — he's  a  lucky  fellow  on 
the  Stock  Exchange,  if  ever  there  was  one  !  I've  no  doubt 
he  made  something  out  of  this  Kimberley  business.  [Opens 
letter.]  *  Dear  Dick,  I  can  put  you  up  to  a  good  thing  if 
you  like.  We  want  three  more  men  to  join,  and  I  thought 
perhaps  you  would  like  to  be  one  of  them,  as  it  will  pro- 
bably mean  making  some  thousands  apiece  out  of  Kimberley. 
Please  answer  by  return  of  post,  as  if  you  don't  feel  in- 
clined to  risk  it  we  must  have  some  one  else.  Yours  ever, 
Hexry  Smithson.'  Out  of  Kimberley  !  Why,  when  was 
this  letter  written  ?  oh,  miserable  man  that  I  am,  it  is 
dated  Wednesday,  9th,  and  this  is  Tuesday,  loth — it  was 
written  nearly  a  week  ago  !  I  wonder  if  there  is  any- 
thing else  from  him  1     [Ttcrns  over  letters  hurriedly.]     Yeti 

T 


274  ^(^'^  ^0  ^^  Forivarded  f 

— here  is  another.  [Tears  it  open.^  '  Did  you  receive  my 
letter  about  Kimberley  ?  let  me  hear  at  once  ! '  and  all 
this  time  I  was  sitting  in  a  punt  at  Twickenham,  trying 
to  think  of  some  way  to  make  money  !  Here's  another 
letter  from  him,  by  hand,  marked  '  Immediate.'  '  Send 
me  a  telegram  when  you  get  this,  or  it  will  be  too  late.' 
Too  late,  indeed  !  Oh,  why  did  I  ever  go  away  ?  A 
telegram — perhaps  this  is  from  him  too.       [Opens  telegram. 

'  Stanhope,  6  Paper  Buildings,  Temple. 
*If  I  do  not  hear  from  you  by  6  p.m.  to-day  (Friday), 
must  ask  some  one  else.  Smitiison.' 

Friday — five  days  ago  !  I  wish  that  punt  had  been 
at  the  bottom  of  the  river  !  Another  telegram — I  hardly 
dare  open  it  !  [Opens  it. 

'  Stanhope,  6  Paper  Buildings,  Temple. 
*  Not  hearing  from  you,  have  made  ofi'er  to  Fortescue, 
who  accepts.  Smithson.' 

(Wildly)  Fortescue  !  of  course,  it  couldn't  be  anyone 
else  !  what,  he  offered  the  shares,  my  shares,  to  Fortescue, 
and  the  shameless  fellow  dared  to  accept  them,  and  to 
make  the   fortune  that  ought  to   have  been    mine  !    and 

now  Amy  is  lost  to  me  for  ever  ! to  think  that  at  a 

moment  like  this  I  was  loafing  about  on  the  banks  of  the 
Thames,  listening  for  a  foolish  cuckoo,  of  which  I  might 
have  heard  a  dozen  more  distinctly  at  any  clock-maker's  in 
Regent  Street  !  oh,  why  did  I  ever  listen  to  Brown,  when 
he  advised  me  to  go  away  and  leaA^e  no  address  ?  Never 
will  I  do  it  again.  Never  will  I  leave  home  for  an  instant, 
except  on  Sundays  when  there  is  no  delivery—  I  will  be 
on  the  doorstep  when  the  postman  comes,  take  the  letters 
from  his  hand,  and  answer  them  before  I  go  upstairs  ! 
But  what  is  the  good  of  saying  so  now — now,  when  it  is 
too  late  ?  when  I  have  lost  the  only  chance  Fortune  ever 


Not  to  be  Forwarded  275 

threw  in  my  way — when  my  correspondence  is  useless,  and 
my  life  is  a  blank  ?  \A.fter  a  moment  tries  to  recover  him,- 
sslf.'l  "Well,  I  had  better  open  these  other  letters,  I  sup- 
pose— perhaps  I  shall  find  I  might  have  made  another 
fortune  the  day  before  yesterday  !  here  is  one  from  my 
little  cousin,  Ethel  Broadstairs — she  and  Amy  are  tremen- 
dous friends.     [Opens  it.^     Hallo  ! 

'  Dear  Dick,  I  want  to  tell  you  something  that  I  know 
will  interest  you — but  you  must  promise  and  swear  not  to 
tell  anyone  else,  because  I've  promised  and  sworn  I  won't 
tell  you  !  Mr.  Fortescue  proposed  to  Amy  Wilton  on  Satui"- 

day  night  at  Mrs.  Gordon's  ball ' Proposed  !  I  knew  it  ! 

[Turns  over  page^ 'and  what  do  you  think  ?  she  refused 

him  ! '  Refused  him  !  in  spite  of  all  the  diamond  rivers 
of  Kimberley  !  joy  and  victory  !  well  done.  Amy  !  and 
what  a  good  little  soul  Ethel  is,  to  write  and  tell  me  at 
once  !  Come,  I  feel  encouraged  to  open  the  others,  though 
I  can't  expect  to  find  anything  much  better  than  that  ! 
[Looking  at  an  envelope.^  Commercial  Union — I  wonder 
what  that  is  about  ?  [Opens  letter. 

'  Dear  Sir,  you  told  me  the  other  day  you  wished  to 
find  some  employment.  Our  secretary  is  obliged  to  leave 
us  on  account  of  his  health,  so  I  write  to  offer  his  post  to 
you.  If  you  think  it  will  suit  you,  please  let  me  hear  from 
you  without  fail  before  three  o'clock  to-morrow  (Tuesday).' 
Tuesday — that  is  to-day  !  [Looks  at  watch]  and  it  is  only 
just  two  o'clock  !  extraordinary  though  it  may  seem,  for 
once  I  am  still  in  time  !  my  luck  has  turned  at  last  !  I 
will  take  a  hansom  and  drive  to  the  Commercial  Union 
this  very  instant — the  road  to  fortune,  the  road  to  Amy, 
lies  open  before  me  —perhaps,  after  all.  Fate  means  to 
atone  for  my  letters  not  having  been  forwarded  ! 

[Snatches  up  hat,  and  exit  hurriedly. 


T  2 


276 


THE  CEOSSING  SWEEPER 

A   MONOLOGUE. 

Crossing  Sweeper.  Well,  I  dare  say  you  think  it  very 
amusing,  standing  and  sweeping  this  'ere  crossing  all  day, 
and  no  one  to  say  '  Thank  you '  foi-  it.  I  don't  think  it  is 
niyself,  and  I  wouldn't  do  it  if  it  weren't  for  a  reason  I've 
got,  that  I'll  tell  you  about  in  a  minute.  I  haven't  learnt 
any  other  trade  'cos  I  never  had  no  father  nor  mother,  as 
far  as  I  can  make  out,  to  teach  me  one.  I  sometimes 
wonder  what  it  must  be  like  to  have  a  mother.  I  don't 
know  that  I  should  care  about  it  much — one  is  more  free 
and  independent-like  without  one.  Mothers  drags  little 
boys  by  the  hand  when  they're  crossing  the  road,  and  says 
to  them, '  There  now,  you've  stepped  into  all  that  mud  ! '  then 
they're  so  busy  scolding  'em  they  never  think  of  giving  me 
a  penny.  I  don't  quite  see  how  people  can  get  about 
London  if  they're  afraid  of  mud — it's  a  thing  I  never 
minded  myself,  and  many  a  time  I've  been  thankful  I 
hadn't  on  fine  boots  like  some  of  the  gentlemen  as  ci-osses 
here,  and  is  in  a  state  if  they  dirties  'em.  It  doesn't 
matter  to  me  if  I  splashes  my  legs,  nor  yet  my  trousers — 
they're  all  the  same  colour  to  begin  with,  and  no  one's  any 
the  wiser,  I  was  washed  once,  though,  and  that  was  in  the 
hospital  for  a  week  at  a  time,  and  I  didn't  like  it  at  all,  I 
can  tell  you.  What's  the  good  of  wetting  you  all  over  and 
making  you  all  greasy  with  soap  and  rubbing  at  you  with 
towels,  just  to  get  off  the  dirt  tliat  3  there  again  next  day  1 


The  Crossing  Sweeper  277 

there's  no  sense  in  it.  Well,  that  time  I  was  in  the  hospital 
was  what  I  was  going  to  tell  you  about,  when  I  saw  that 
beautiful  lady  I  want  to  see  again.  It  wasn't  a  bad  time, 
barring  the  washing  :  there  was  plenty  to  eat,  and  I  was  as 
warm  as  warm  the  whole  day  long ;  but  I  was  precious  glad 
to  get  out  of  it  again  into  the  streets  and  the  mud,  I  can 
tell  you.  One  week  of  keeping  still  is  enough  for  me.  I 
had  got  knocked  down  by  a  carriage  when  I  was  running 
across  Oxford  Street  one  day,  to  ask  an  old  lady  for  a 
penny  :  that's  why  I  was  taken  to  the  hospital.  Well,  so 
the  day  before  I  was  coming  out,  a  beautiful  lady  corned  in 
and  talks  to  all  the  people  round  about — so  I  looked  at  her 
and  wondered  if  she  was  going  to  speak  to  me.  She  did, 
she  looks  at  me  and  says,  'And  how  are  you,  my  little 
man  % '  '  I'm  all  right,  thank  you,  lady,'  says  I,  '  and  I'm 
going  out  to-morrow.'  '  Going  out,  are  you  1 '  she  says. 
'  Well,  mind  you're  an  honest  boy  when  you  go  out.'  She 
was  a  beautiful  lady,  and  no  mistake.  She  had  pink  cheeks, 
just  like  a  doll  that  the  little  girl  had  in  the  next  bed  to 
me,  and  bright  shining  eyes,  and  a  dress  all  sticking  out 
and  flopping  about  everywhere,  the  kind  of  dress  that 
fine  ladies  holds  up  very  high,  like  this,  when  they're  cross- 
ing the  street.  Well,  I  came  out  of  the  hospital  next  day, 
and  I  met  Jim  Bates,  and  he  wanted  me  to  go  with  him 
and  pick  up  a  living,  as  he  calls  it,  in  the  streets — the 
sort  of  living  he  picks  up  is  purses,  and  handkerchieves 
and  such  like,  if  people  dropped  them,  or  even  if  they  didn't 
drop  'em,  and  sell  them  to  a  Jew.  But  I  thought  I  wouldn't 
do  that,  as  I  wanted  to  tell  the  lady  when  I  met  her  again 
that  I  had  been  an  honest  boy,  the  same  as  she  said.  So  I 
begged  in  the  streets  till  I'd  got  money  enough  to  buy  an 
old  broom,  and  then  I  come  here  and  swep'  this  crossing, 
'cause  it's  near  the  hospital,  and  I  thought  the  lady  was 
sure  to  come  this  way  again  some  time.  But  I've  swep'  and 
swep'  'ere  ever  since — that's  close  upon  a  year  now — and 


278  TJie  Crossing  Sweeper 

I've  never  seen  her  once.  I've  many  a  time  thought  I  saw 
her,  and  once  a  lady  came  along  over  there,  with  a  dress  all 
sticking  out  and  a  long  cloak  all  covered  with  spots,  and 
lines  and  marks,  and  I  thought  it  was  her,  and  I  made  all 
ready  and  had  a  beautiful  clean  crossing  for  her  to  walk 
over,  and  then  when  she  came  up  it  was  somebody  else  !  it 
was  quite  a  fat  old  lady  with  a  red  face,  and  1  was  so 
angry  I  spluttered  the  mud  all  over  her  with  my  broom, 
and  serve  her  right  too.  And  so  yesterday  night  I  thought 
to  myself,  '  I'm  about  tired  of  this  !  if  she  don't  come  soon 
I  shall  just  throw  away  my  broom  and  go  after  Jim  Bates, 
for  I've  had  enough  of  this  'ere.'  I'll  go  away  to-day,  this 
very  day,  I  declare.  I'll  just  wait  till  six  people  more  have 
passed,  and  if  she  don't  come  then,  why,  I  can't  help  it, 
that's  all.  I  won't  wait  here  for  her  any  longer.  There's 
somebody  over  there.  That's  No.  1,  that's  the  old  gentle- 
man who  comes  down  here  every  day.  He  don't  give  me 
anything,  he  just  turns  up  his  trousers  and  wears  old  boots, 
a  ad  doesn't  care  twopence  about  the  mud  !  I  won't  sweep 
for  him.  There's  a  maid  and  two  children,  that  counts 
for  three.  I  see  that  maid  often,  and  she  never  gives  me 
nothing — so  I'll  just  spite  her  and  put  a  little  pile  of  mud 
ready  for  the  little  uns  to  walk  into.  That's  ri^ht,  he's 
dabbed  'is  foot  right  into  the  middle  of  it.  It's  no  use  your 
s'laking  and  scolding  him  like  that  !  serve  you  right,  p'raps 
that'll  make  you  take  some  notice  of  the  crossing  sweeper. 
There's  a  lady  coming  right  away  over  there,  who's  that  ? 
No,  it's  only  a  district  visitor,  I  know  her  !  she's  been 
across  a  good  many  roads  to-day  by  the  look  of  her-  oh, 
thank  you,  lady  !  well,  it  isn't  always  the  richest  as  give 
most  !  that's  5 — no,  that's  6.  Ah — what,  there's  some  one, 
yes,  away  over  there  .  .  .  why,  I  believe,  yes,  I  do  believe  it's 
a  cloak,  just  like  hers  was  !  Yes,  and  it's  a  face  like  hers 
too,  and  bright  eyes  and  pink  cheeks — yes,  yes,  it's  her  after 
all  I  well,  tliis  is  luck,  I  was  right  to  wait  this  time  anyhow  ! 


The  Crossing  Sweeper  279 

and  it's  a  good  job  I  didn't  go  off  with  Jim  Bates,  else  I 
couldn't  have  told  her  as  I'd  kept  straight.  Here  she  is 
now,  quick  !     I've  made  a  nice  clean  place  for  her  to  walk. 

'  Please,  lady,  it's  me,  lady,  as  you  saw '  Why,  she's  gone 

on  !  She  don't  know  me  again.  \Stan6Ls  staring  a  minute 
and  then  throws  his   broom   down   and  7'uns   after   her.\ 

'  Rease,  lady '  What's  that  ?     '  Vou  go  away,  I  never 

give  to  beggars  in  the  streets.'  '  I  ain't  a  beggar  !  you  can 
see  that  by  my  broom.  What  do  you  say — "  Go  away,  or 
I'll  call  the  police  "  ? '  [Stands  looking  after  her,  then  dashes 
his  broom  down.^  Well,  if  that's  how  it  is,  I'll  just  go  oif 
to  Jim  and  make  a  living  with  him.  That  wasn't  worth 
keeping  honest  for,  that  yonder  ! 


28o 


THE  VICEROY'S  WEDDING 

A   MONOLOGUE. 

Of  course  I  wanted  to  go  to  the  Yiceroy's  wedding  !  I'm 
not  ashamed  of  it  — everybody  did.  Everyone  always  does 
want  to  go  to  everyone's  wedding,  especially  if  they're  not 
asked.  And  besides,  I  was  particularly  interested  in  this 
wedding.  I  saw  so  much  of  the  Viceroy  when  I  was  in 
India,  staying  with  my  sister  who  is  in  the  91st. 

He  was  very  nice  to  me,  most  particularly  nice — I  was 
quite  looking  forward  to  seeing  him  again  over  here.  I^ut 
people  who  are  nice  to  you  in  India  are  not  always  the 
same  in  England  :  it's  something  in  the  climate,  I  suppose. 

I  must  confess  I  was  surprised  when  I  heard  he  was  going 
to  marry  Mrs.  Stanhope,  such  a  dull  little  person  !  especially 
as  in  India  he  used  to  seem  to  like  more  attractive  women. 
Ah  !  I  little  thought  of  his  ever  being  married  without  my 
being  there  to  see  !  especially  as,  when  I  heard  the  wedding 
was  to  be  in  Westminster  Abbey,  I  gave  him  a  hint — I 
wrote  and  asked  him  for  an  invitation.  But  no,  nothing 
came,  either  for  the  Abbey  or  for  the  garden-party  after- 
wards at  the  Duchess  of  Portlake's,  from  whose  house  the 
bride  was  to  be  married.  And  the  dreadful  thing  was,  that 
I  had  told  all  the  neighbours  that  I  should  be  at  both  !  It 
is  really  too  inconsiderate  of  people  not  to  ask  one  to  a 
party  that  everybody  expects  one  to  go  to.  Then,  as  the 
day  drew  near  they  all  began  asking  me  what  I  was  going 
to  wear — if  I  was  going  to  have  a  new  dress,  and  so  on. 
*No,'  I  said,   'that  is  not  the  way  I  like  spending  my 


The  Viceroy's  Wedding  281 

money.'  Then  they  all  admired  ray  self-control.  So  did  I ! 
I  don't  know  how  I  managed  to  hide  the  sufferings  I  under- 
went as  the  days  went  on.  Yesterday  was  the  last  of  them — 
I  went  to  bed  quite  determined  that  this  morning  I  should 
say  that  I  was  too  ill  to  go  after  all — but  Mrs.  Robinson 
must  needs  send  round  to  know  by  what  train  I  was  leaving, 
as  she  longed  to  see  me  dressed.  Horrid  woman  !  I  believe 
she  suspected  the  truth.  But  I  was  a  match  for  her — I 
sent  word  back  that  I  was  leaving  by  the  eleven  o'clock 
train.     I  got  up,  dressed,  and  went  off  to  the  station. 

The  neighbours  were  all  as  excited  as  if  I  had  been 
going  to  be  married  myself.  The  booking  clerk,  even,  knew 
all  about  it.  '  Westminster  Bridge,  I  suppose  % '  he  said, 
with  an  admiring  smile.  'Yes,'  I  said  firmly,  'Westminster 
Bridge.' 

'  Ah  !  you  are  a  lucky  woman,'  said  the  Vicar,  who  bad 
come  to  see  some  one  off.  '  It  isn't  often  I  want  to  go  to  a 
wedding,  but  I  must  say,  I  should  like  to  see  this  one.' 

'Well,  you  see,  he's  an  old  friend  of  mine,'  I  said, 
airily,  getting  into  the  carriage.  '  Of  course  when  people 
are  old  friends ' 

'  Oh,  yes,'  he  said,  '  when  people  are  old  friends ' 

Fortunately  at  this  moment  the  train  moved  on.  The 
people  in  the  carriage  had  all  heard  what  the  officious 
creature  said. 

'  All  this  in  your  honour  ! '  said  one  of  them  jocosely,  as 
we  got  to  Westminster  Bridge  and  saw  the  flags. 

'Yes,  in  my  honour,'  I  said  with  a  sickly  smile,  and  I 
got  out,  meaning  to  go  to  Marshall  and  Snelgrove's  and 
buy  remnants  for  the  rest  of  the  morning.  I  felt  there  was 
a  chance  of  my  being  a  remnant  myself  by  the  time  I  got 
there.  I  never  was  so  jostled  and  pushed  in  all  my  life. 
Rude  people  go  to  weddings — very  rude,  indeed.  Just  as 
I  was  getting  to  the  foot  of  the  stairs,  I  heard  my  name 
uttered  in  a  piercing  shriek. 


282  Tlie  Viceroy's  Wedding 

'  Lucy  !  Lucy  ! '  I  looked  round.  It  was  Aunt  Eliza  ! 
My  heart  died  within  me.  Now  she  would  go  with  me  to 
Marshall  and  Snelgrove's,  choose  the  things  I  bought,  and 
buy  the  things  I  had  chosen.  That's  what  happens  when 
you  shop  with  your  relations. 

*  Hah,  Aunt  Eliza  !  '  I  said,  with  a  ghastly  attempt  at  a 
rapturous  smile,     '  Where  are  you  going  ? ' 

'  I  was  going  to  the  Abbey,' she  said,  clinging  to  my  arm 
convulsively. 

'  To  the  Abbey  ! '  I  shrieked.  '  You're  not  going  to  the 
wedding  ? ' 

'  I  was  going  to  the  wedding,  but  the  most  terrible  thing 
has  happened.' 

'  Is  the  wedding  put  off'? '  I  cried. 

'Put  off?  No  !'  my  aunt  said  impatiently,  'but  I've 
lost  Mrs.  Ronner.' 

'  Mrs.  Ronner  '  But  still,  you  need  not  go  into  mourn- 
ing for  her—  it  is  not  as  if  she  were  a  relation.' 

'  It  isn't  as  if  she  were  dead  either ! '  said  my  aunt 
exa.sperated.  If  there's  one  thing  that  makes  people  more 
angry  than  not  understanding  what  somebody  else  says,  it 
is  not  being  understood  themselves. 

'  I  mean  I  lost  her  in  the  crowd  when  I  got  into  the 
train — and  what  to  do  I  don't  know,  for  I've  got  her  ticket.' 

'  Her  ticket  ! '  I  cried.  '  Then  you've  got  a  spare  one  if 
you  don't  find  her  ? ' 

'But  I  must  find  her!'  my  aunt  shrieked.  'They're 
her  own  tickets.  She  got  them,  from  being  a  cousin  of 
Miss  Anderson,  who  taught  Mrs.  Stanhope's  sister-in-law's 
children  when  they  lived  at  Prince's  Gate,  so  I  must  fir d 
her.  Besides,  I  can't  possibly  fight  my  way  into  the  Abbey 
all  by  myself.' 

'  No,  no,  you  shall  not  do  that,'  I  said.  '  I'll  go  with 
you,  sooner  than  you  should  go  alone.' 


The  Viceroy's  Wedding  283 

'  But,  my  dear,  I  must  find  her,'  said  my  aunt,  not  at  all 
grateful  for  the  suggestion.  '  She  must  go  to  the  wedding ! 
It  isn't  as  if  she  weren't  a  cousin  of  Miss  Anderson,  who 
taught  Mrs.  Stanhope's  sister-in-law's ' 

'  Yes.  yes,'  I  said,  edging  determinately  towards  the  way 
out.     '  She  is  a  tall,  dark  woman  ? ' 

'  Yes,'  my  aunt  said,  'and  dressed  in ' 

'  A  light  brown  silk,'  I  cried,  '  and  a  black  cape,  and 
bonnet  with  white  lace  strings  ? '  for  I  knew  just  the  kind 
of  clothes  Aunt  Eliza's  friends  wear  at  weddings.  '  Then 
she's  gone  up  that  staircase.' 

'  Oh,  you  dear  Lucy,  you  always  see  everything  ! '  So 
with  Aunt  Eliza  clinging  to  my  arm  we  hustled  up  the 
staircase  with  the  crowd. 

'  Where  is  she  % '  panted  my  aunt  as  we  got  up  to  the 
(op  of  the  stairs  and  looked  round. 

'  There's  a  black  cape,'  I  shouted,  pointing  in  the  direc- 
tion of  the  Abbey — '  not  a  minute  to  be  lost ! ' 

So  Aunt  Eliza,  who  on  ordinary  occasions  is  terrified  if 
she  is  in  the  same  street  with  a  horse,  darted  after  me 
between  cabs  and  omnibuses,  behind  carts,  on  people's  feet, 
and  under  them — still  in  hot  pursuit  of  the  invisible  Mrs. 
Ronner,  a  fat  ghost  in  brown  silk  beckoning  us  on.  Through 
the  crowd,  along  the  cloisters 

'  She  went  round  that  corner! '  I  cried,  completely  carried 
away  by  the  excitement  of  the  moment.  Round  the  corner 
after  her — on  to  the  door  of  the  Abbey  !  My  heart  stood 
still — but  the  rest  of  me  didn't.  To  stop  was  impossible, 
with  the  rest  of  the  guests  surging  behind. 

'  Each  'old  yer  own  ticket,  please,'  said  the  distracted 
policeman. 

My  aunt  pressed  Mrs.  Ronner's  ticket  into  my  hand. 
I  took  it  silently.  Mrs.  Ronner's  ticket  ?  Ko,  my  ticket ! 
We  were  inside  the  Abbey — I  was  saved  ! 


284  The  Viceroy's  Wedding 

'  Oh  dear,  where  is  she  now  % '  said  Aunt  Eliza  gasp- 
ing. 

'  South  transept,'  said  I,  looking  at  my  ticket.  '  Come 
to  the  south  transept,  and  look  for  her  there.' 

'  She  can'<  be  there,'  said  my  aunt  with  one  last  gleam 
of  bewildered  lucidity.     *  How  can  she  have  got  in  % ' 

'Come  along,  come  along,'  I  said,  dragging  herafter  me. 
Oh  dear  !  what  a  weight  she  was,  and  how^  I  wished  I  wore 
alone  !  There  ought  to  be  a  place  to  leave  one's  aunt  in  when 
one  goes  to  Westminster  Abbey.  However,  we  got  to  the 
south  transept  at  last.  Crowds  of  people  there  already — ■ 
hot  and  satisfied  people  on  the  front  seats — hot  and  angry 
ones  at  the  back. 

'  Dear  me  !  we  shall  never  see  Mrs.  Bonner  here  ! ' 
sighed  my  aunt,  as  she  looked  round  her. 

'  I'm  afraid  we  never  shall,'  I  said  with  great  truth. 

*  Why,  there's  Mrs.  Welby,'  said  my  aunt,  '  and  her 
brother  Captain  Clarke,  and  his  niece  Booboo  Smith  !  .  . 
How  delightful !  We'll  go  and  sit  with  them.  Mrs.  Welby 
was  Mrs.  Ronner's  second  cousin,  you  know — her  mother 
was  a  Jones  .  .  .'  And  she  began  vigorously  pushing  her 
way  through  the  crowd  towards  them.  The  seat  she  was 
making  for,  exclusive  of  its  being  occupied  by  Mrs.  Welby, 
Captain  Clarke  and  Miss  Smith,  had  no  particular  advan- 
tage. It  was  about  the  worst  place  for  seeing  in  the 
Abbey.  No,  it  was  not  for  that  I  had  left  Wandsworth 
at  eleven  ! 

'  There  now,  this  is  cosy,'  Aunt  Eliza  said  as  we  squeezed 
in,  '  isn't  it,  Lucy  ? ' 

'  Very  ! '  I  said.  It  had  not  occurred  to  me  till  that 
moment  that  cosiness  was  our  object. 

'I'm  afraid  we  shan't  see  much  from  here  though,  shall 
we  ? '  I  said,  and  I  stood  on  tiptoe  and  craned  my  neck. 
So  Aunt  Eliza,  Mrs.  Welby,  Captain  Clarke  and  Miss 
Smith  all  stood  on  tiptoe  and  craned  their  necks  too,  such  as 


The  Viceroy's  Wedding  285 

they  were — and  we  all  had  a  distinct  view  of  the  same  thing  ; 
that  is,  of  the  backs  of  some  enormous  people  in  the  row  in 
front  of  us.  Tall  people  go  to  weddings— very  tall  people 
indeed — and  I  don't  know  how  it  is  that  the  people  in  front 
of  one  especially,  always  seem  to  average  nine  feet  high  on 
these  occasions.     I  then  saw  one  empty  chair  in  front. 

I  said  to  Aunt  Eliza,  '  I  will  find  another  seat,  so  that 
you  may  be  less  crowded  here — but  you  stay  with  Mrs.  Welby. 
It  does  not  signify  where  I  go,  so  long  as  you  are  comfort- 
able.' 

'  No,  no,  dear,'  said  Aunt  Eliza.  '  I  could  not  think  of 
letting  you  go  alone.  You  don't  mind  going,  do  you,  Mrs. 
Welby  % ' 

'  Of  course  not,'  said  Mrs.  "Welby,  '  nor  will  Captain 
Clarke  and  Booboo.'  And  so  after  some  delay  in  finding 
Mrs.  Welby's  umbrella,  a  most  valuable  adjunct  at  a  wed- 
ding, we  all  five  fought  our  way  to  the  empty  chair,  on 
which  there  were  already  two  people  when  we  got  there. 
I  was  in  despair. 

'Never  mind  the  chair,  I  will  stand,'  I  said  to  Aunt 
Eliza,  taking  up  my  position  bravely  in  the  gangway  in 
front  of  the  first  row  of  people. 

'  The  only  thing  is,'  whispered  my  aunt,  '  I'm  not  sure 
of  Mrs.  Welby  being  able  to  stand,  she  suffers  so  terribly 
from  rheumatism.  Do  you  think  you  can  stand,  Mrs. 
Welby  1 ' 

'/  can,'  said  Mrs.  Welby,  'but  I'm  not  sure  about 
Captain  Clarke.     He  has  the  gout  so  badly,  you  know.' 

'  Then,  my  dear,'  said  Aunt  Eliza  to  me,  'we'll  just  go 
back  to  the  seats  we  had  before.' 

'All  right,'  said  Mrs.  Welby.  'Captain  Clarke,  will 
you  tell  Booboo  that  we  are  going  back  to  where  we  were 
before  1 '  And  they  all  waited  in  a  fat  row  for  me  to  lead 
the  way. 

Then  I  played  my  trump  card.     '  Very  well,'  I  said, 


286  TJie  Viceroy's  Wedding 

'  and  I'll  just  go  back  to  the  door  for  a  last  look  and  see  if 
Mrs.  Ronner  is  there.' 

'  Oh,  you  good  Lucy  ! '  said  Aunt  Eliza. 

I  fled,  without  waiting  for  more.  I  looked  furtively 
round  when  I  got  to  the  other  side,  to  be  sure  they  were 
not  following.  No,  they  had  settled  in  some  seats  several 
rows  farther  back  than  they  were  before,  and  behind  a  large 
pillar.  They  miijSt  have  felt  cosy  this  time  !  I  saw  that 
pursuit  was  impossible — went  round  the  other  way — got 
back  again  to  the  front.  I  found  an  old  man  standing  on  a 
chair— I  cheerfully  offered  to  share  it  with  him.  Then, 
when  the  crowd  pushed  us,  later  on,  and  he  fell  off,  I  had  it 
to  myself,  and  so  I  had  a  most  excellent  viow  of  everything. 
I  saw  the  top  of  the  bride's  head  as  she  stood  in  front  of  the 
rails.  I  saw  the  back  of  the  best  man  perfectly,  and  I 
almost  think  I  heard  a  murmur  of  voices  as  the  ceremony 
was  taking  place.  So  altogether  nothing  could  have  been 
more  impressive.  Then  when  it  was  all  over,  I  picked  up 
the  favour  the  old  man  had  dropped,  I  pinned  it  in  the 
front  of  my  gown,  and  went  to  the  Duchess  of  Portlake's 
party.  I  ate  strawberries  and  cream  all  the  aftei'noon,  and 
I  gave  my  name  clearly  to  the  reporter  at  the  door— so  that 
now  everybody  in  London  knows  as  well  as  you  do  [2'o  the 
audience]  that  I  was  at  the  Viceroy's  wedding. 


!87 


JACK  AND   THE  BEANSTALK 

A   PLAY  IN  THREE  ACTS. 

CHARACTERS. 

Mrs.  Brown.        Jack  (her  son).        Countryman.        Ogre. 
Grumps  (his  wife). 

ACT  L 

Mrs.  Brown  (spinning).  Seven  o'clock — It's  time  for 
supper  !  but  there's  nothing  to  eat  in  the  house — what  I 
shall  say  to  Jack  when  he  comes  in  I  don't  know.  And  I 
know  the  first  thing  he'll  say  will  be,  '  Well,  mother  ! 
what  is  there  for  supper  ? '  Ah,  there  he  is  outside. 
\Jack  heard  whistling  and  singing].  He  is  a  nice  boy 
certainly,  and  a  very  good  boy  too  sometimes,  but  he  is  a 
very  noisy  one. 

Enter  Jack. 

Jack.     Mother,  what  is  there  for  supper  ? 

Mrs.  Brown.  There,  I  knew  it  !  Don't  shout,  Jack, 
I'm  not  deaf. 

Jack.  All  right,  I  won't.  (Whispering)  Mother,  what 
is  there  for  supper  1 

Mrs.  Broion.  I  never  saw  such  a  boy  !  He  thinks  of 
nothing  but  his  meals  ! 

Jack.  Of  course  I  do,  at  meal  times.  That's  right  and 
proper  !  (sings) 

Yes,  yes,  my  appetite 

Is  always  good  for  meals  at  night — 


288  Jack  and  the  Beanstalk 

You  mustn't  starve  me  quite, 

You'll  see  me  grow  quite  thin  and  white. 

Mrs.  Brown.     Well,  well,  I  can't  help  that, 

I'd  rather  see  you  pink  and  fat — 
I  don't  know  what  to  be  at, 
I  feel  inclined  to  stew  the  cat. 

Jack.     Now  then,  let's  lay  the  cloth. 

Mrs.  Brown.  You  may  lay  the  cloth  on  the  table  if 
you  like,  but  there's  nothing  else  to  put  on  it. 

Jack.     Nothing  for  supper  ! 

Mrs.  Brown,     Not  one  crumb. 

Jack.     Let's  buy  something  then. 

Mrs.  Brown,  We  haven't  any  money  to  buy  anything 
with. 

Jack.     Let's  sell  something. 

Mrs.  Brown.     We've  got  nothing  to  sell. 

Jack  (making  a  dart  at  the  cat).     Let's  sell  the  cat  ! 

Mrs.  Brown.  Sell  the  cat  !  What  would  you  get  by 
that? 

Jack.  We  should  get  scratches,  spits,  and  mews,  I 
should  think.     Ha,  ha  ! 

Mrs.  Brown.  Ah  !  It's  nothing  to  laugh  at !  there  is 
only  one  thing  we  can  sell,  and  that  is  the  cow. 

Jack.     What,  mother,  sell  our  pretty  Brindle  ? 

Mrs.  Brown.  Alas,  yes  !  We  must  part  with  her, 
there  is  nothing  else  to  be  done. 

Jack.     How  much  will  you  get  for  her? 

Mrs.  Brown.  Well,  neighbour  Hodge  would  give  me 
fifteen  pounds  for  her. 

Jack.  Fifteen  pounds  !  Dear  me,  how  many  break- 
fasts, dinners,  and  suppers  I  couJd  have  for  that. 

Mrs.  Brown  (going  out).  Oh  that  I  should  have  sutrh 
a  greedy,  greedy  boy  as  this  !  Now  take  care  of  the  house, 
and  don't  you  get  into  mischief  for  once. 


Jack  and  the  Beanstalk  289 

Jack.     All  right,  mother,  I'll  take  care  of  it. 

\Ex%t  Mrs,  Brown. 

Jack.     There  !     Now    I'm    the   master  of   the   house  ! 

Now,  what  shall  I  do  next  ?     If  I  could  find  the  cat   I 

would  tie  .him  up  in  the  pudding  bag.     Perhaps  I   had 

better  learn  my  spelling  for  to-morrow. 

[//e  lakes  book  and  plai/s  at  football  with  it. 

Enter  Countryman, 

Countryman.     Good  evening,  young  man. 

Jack.     Good  evening,  old  man. 

Countryman.     You're  not  very  polite. 

Jack.     I'm  not  generally  considered  so. 

Countryman.     Where's  the  master  of  the  house  ? 

Jack.     Here.     I'm  the  master  of  the  house. 

Countryman.     What,  do  you  live  alone  here  ? 

Jack.  Yes,  except  my  mother — she  lives  with  me,  but 
that  doesn't  count. 

Countryman.     Where  is  your  mother  gone  to  ? 

Jack.  She  has  gone  to  see  neighbour  Hodge  about 
selling  the  cow. 

Countryman.     Selling  the  cow  1 

Jack.  Yes.  We're  very  poor.  We  haven't  got  any- 
thing to  eat  in  the  house. 

Countryman.  Nothing  to  eat !  that's  bad.  How  much 
will  she  sell  it  for  ? 

Jack.     Oh,  I  don't  know.     As  much  as  she  ean  get. 

Country mAxn.  Pity  she  didn't  sell  her  to  me,  I  want  a 
cow  myself. 

Jack.  Do  you  ?  Look  here,  what  fun  it  would  be  to 
sell  you  the  cow  before  mother  conies  back  !  it  would  be 
a  surprise. 

Countryman.  Not  a  bad  idea.  (Aside)  I  will  de- 
ceive this  innocent  child,  and  buy  his  cow  for  nothing. 

Jack.     What  will  you  give  me  for  it  1     You  must  give 

u 


290  Jack  and  the  Beanstalk 

me  a  great  deal,  you  know.     Let  me  see,  more  than  fifteen 
pounds,  I  should  think. 

Countryman.  I  don't  know  that  I  can  give  you  that 
much  in  ordinary  money,  but  I  have  something  of  much 
more  value  in  my  pocket.  S^Produces  heans. 

Jack.     Oh,  what  lovely  things  ! 

Countryman.  I  should  think  so  !  it  is  not  often  you 
come  across  anything  like  that. 

Jack.  Then  how  many  of  those  will  you  give  me  foi- 
the  cow  % 

Countryman.  Well,  let  me  see — you  say  you  want 
fifteen  pounds  for  the  cow,  and  these  are  much  more  valu- 
able.    I  will  give  you  a  dozen. 

Jack.  A  dozen,  all  right.  (Aside)  That's  a  splendid 
bargain  !     I  hope  I  am  not  taking  the  poor  man  in. 

Countryma7i.  All  right,  that's  a  bargain.  Where  is 
the  beast  ? 

Jack.  There  she  is,  outside  — go  out  of  doors  and  turn 
down  the  path,  it  is  the  first  cow  to  the  left. 

Countryman.     Your  hand  on  it. 

Jack  (sings).     Then  there's  my  hand — 
I  understand  ! 

Countryman.     To  fortune  'tis  the  way — 
You  ne'er  again 
Will  have,  'tis  plain, 
The  chance  you've  had  to-day  ! 
•  yjiejjeat  toyetlter  and  dance. 

\Mrs.  Brown  comes  in  and  sees  the  others  dancimj. 

Mrs.  Brovqn.     I  hope  I'm  noc  interrupting  you. 

Countryman  (still  dancing).  Not  in  the  least  m'am, 
not  in  the  least,  thank  you — I  happened  to  be  calling,  m'am, 
and  as  you  were  not  in  I  thought  I  would  dance  a  little  to 
pass  the  time  until  your  return. 

Mrs.  Brown.  Thank  you,  that  is  very  kind  of  you,  but  I  aiii 
sorry  to  say  that  I  have  not  the  pleasure  of  your  acquaintance. 


Jack  and  the  Beanstalk  29 1 

Countryman.  No,  m'am,  no,  m'am,  that  is  quite  true, 
that  is  why  I  began  to  think  it  was  time  you  should. 

Mrs.  Brown  (aside).  He  is  too  polite  for  my  taste — T 
never  trust  people  who  are  polite. 

Countryman.  In  the  meantime  your  son  has  been 
entertaining  me — what  a  charming,  well-bred  young  gen- 
tleman he  is ! 

Mrs.  Brown.     It  is  not  often  he  has  that  said  of  him. 

Countryman.     He  is  just  the  young  gentleman  I  like. 
\HoIds   his   hand  to  Jack — they  dance    toyetlier    oil 
tiptoe,  Mrs.  Brown  following  angrily  after  tlieui 
— Countryman  dances  out. 

Mrs.  Brown.  I  never  saw  such  doings  as  this  !  as  if 
we  had  nothing  better  to  do  !  sit  down  and  get  your  spell- 
ing book,  and  see  if  you  can  keep  quiet  for  five  minutes. 

[Jack  sits  down  with  his  hook. 

Jack.     C  O  W— What  does  COW  spell,  mother  ? 

Mrs.  Broion.     COW  si^ells  Cow, 

Ja4;k  (smiling  to  himself).     Cow  !  I  thought  it  did  ! 

Mrs.  Brown.  Neighbour  Hodge  says  he  will  buy 
Brindle — I  wonder  where  she  is,  I  must  go  out  and  see  her. 

Jack.     Oh  no,  you  need  not,  I  have  just  seen  her. 

Mrs.  Brown  (looking  out  of  the  window).  I  don't  see 
her  anywhere  !  where  can  she  be  1 

Jack.  Perhaps  she  is  sitting  under  a  cabbage  leaf,  or 
she's  climbed  the  cherry  tree — oh  no,  I  forgot,  she  is  a 
grizzly  cow  and  can't  climb  trees. 

Mrs.  Brown.  Hold  your  tongue,  you  naughty  boy  I  go 
and  see  where  she  is. 

Jaxik.  I  know  where  she  is  without  going  to  see — at 
least  I  know  where  she  is  not,  and  that's  in  the  garden. 

Mrs.  Brown.     Not  in  the  garden  !     W^here  is  she  then  ? 

Jack.     I've  sold  her. 

Mrs.  Brown,    You've  sold  her  !    You  naughty,  bad  boy  ! 

Jack.     Not  at  all,  I've  saved  you  the  trouble. 


292  Jack  and  the  Beanstalk 

Mrs.  Brown.     What  did  you  get  for  her  ? 
Jack.     Ah,  mother,  you  will  be  pleased  ! 
Mrs.  Brown.     What,  have  you  got  uiore  than  twenty 
pounds  ? — you  are  a  good  boy  ! 

Jack.      Well,    not   for   more   than  fifteen   in   money. 

Look [He  puts  his  hands  into  his  pockets. 

Mrs.  Brown.  Be  quick  !  I'm  dying  to  know  what-  you 
got.  [Jack  ]}uUs  out  a  handful  of  beans. 

Mrs.  Broion  (impatiently).  Come,  never  mind  those 
stupid  things — give  me  the  money  ! 

[Takes  the  handful  and  throws  them  out  of  the  window. 
Jack.     Stop,  stop,  mother,  that's  the  money  !     You  are 
throwing  away  the  money  that  I  got  for  the  cow. 

Mrs.  Brown.  What  !  Do  you  mean  to  say  that  you 
sold  my  cow  for  a  few  woi'thless  beans  1  you  wretched 
boy,  you  have  ruined  me  !  you  have  ruined  your  mother  ! 

Jack.  But,  mother,  Mr.  Barleycorn  said  they  were  worth 
a  great  deal  more  !  a  great,  gr-eat  deal  more  ! 

Mrs.  Brown.  But  he  did  not  speak  the  truth — you 
stupid  boy 

JoAik.  I  thought  grown-up  people  always  spoke  the 
truth. 

Mrs.  Broum.  Well,  you'll  know  better  after  this,  I  hope. 
You  stupid,  stupid  boy  !    Whatever  are  we  to  do  ? 

Jack.  Well,  I  do  think  it  is  a  pity  my  beautiful  beans 
were  thrown  away.  [Goes  to  window  to  look.^  Why,  what's 
that  in  the  garden  ?    Look,  mother,  look  ! 

Mrs.  Brown  (rushing).  Is  it  Brindle  1  Brindle  come 
back  ? 

JacA;.     No,  no,  something  far  better  than  that — it  is 
something  growing,  growing  right  up  to  the  sky. 
Mrs.  Brown.     I  do  believe  it's  a  beanstalk  ! 
Jack.     A  beanstalk  1    Yes,  it   is   my  beans   growing  ! 
C)h,  mother,  how  exciting  !     I'll  climb  up  and  see  where  it 
uoes  to 


Jack  and  the  Beanstalk  293 

Mrs.  Brown.  No,  no,  don't  go  up  into  tlie  sky  in  that 
way  without  knowing  where  you  are  going. 

Jack.  I  must,  mother,  I  must  !  Good-bye  !  I'll  bring 
you  back  something  beautiful  from  the  clouds — perhaps 
another  cow  as  good  as  Brindle. 

\He  climbs  on  to  tvindow  sill  and  sings. 

Song. 

Up,  upon  a  beanstalk,  high  as  a  balloon, 

All  among  the  little  clouds,  a-sailing  round  the  moon. 

Mrs.  Brown.  Oh,  if  you  are  going,  mind  you  come  back 
soon — 
I  don't  like  your  climbing  things  that  lead 
up  to  the  moon  ! 

Curtain. 


ACT  II. 

Scene  I. — Interior  of  the  Ogress  castle.     A  large  kitchen. 

Enter  Jack,  cautiously,  looking  round. 

Jack.  Oh  !  at  last  !  What  a  long  beanstalk  !  I  thought 
I  should  never  get  to  the  top.  And  now  that  I  am  here,  I 
wonder  where  I  am  !  It  looked  like  a  castle  from  outside. 
Ah  !  here  is  some  one  coming,  j 

Enter  Gr'um,ps,  the  Ogre's  wife. 

Grumps.  Shsh  !  Shoo  !  !  Go  away  !  !  !  [  Waving  frying- 
pan  at  Jack.^     No  boys  here. 

Jack.     But,  my  good  soul 

Crumps.  No,  I  ain't  your  good  soul.  Go  away,  T  tell 
you. 

Jack.     But  why  1 


294  Jack  and  the  Beanstalk 

Grumps.  Because  this  is  the  Ogre's  castle,  and  he  will 
be  hack  directly  for  his  dinner. 

Jack.     And  what  will  he  have  for  his  dinner  ? 
Grumps.     You,  if  you  stay  any  longer  !    So  I  advise  you 
to  disappear. 

Jack.     That's  all  very  well,  but  where  am  I  to  go  to  ? 
Griim/ps.     Go  back  to  the  place  you  came  fi'om. 
Jack.     But  I  don't  know  the  way. 
Grumps.     How  did  you  get  here,  then  ? 
Jack.     I  happened  to  meet  a  fairy  after  I  left  the  bean- 
stalk, and  she  directed  me  to  your  house. 

Grutnps.  Well,  happen  to  meet  another  then,  and  let 
her  direct  you  back.  If  you  wait  much  longer  you'll  meet 
the  Ogre,  and  then  you  won't  need  any  directions. 

\0(jre  heard  outside. 
Ogre.       Fee,  fi,  fo,  fum  ! 

1  smell  the  blood  of  an  Englishman. 
Be  he  alive,  or  be  he  dead, 
I'll  grind  his  bones  to  make  my  bread. 
Jack.     What  is  that  1 
Grumps.     The  Ogre—  the  Ogre  ! 
Jack.     Oh  !    do  hide  me  somewhere — please  ! 
Grumps  (opening  oven  door).      Quick,  then  !    Here  you 
are.     Jump  in  here  ! 

\Jack  juynps   in.      Grur>%ps  closes  door  just  as  Ogre, 
comes  in. 
Ogre  (sings).       Fee,  fi,  fo,  fum  ! 

I  smell  the  blood  of  an  Englishman. 
What  have   you    got  for   my   dinner  to-day,  you    useless 
woman  'i    What  is  there  1  come,  tell  me  quick  ! 

Grumps.  A  nice  little  kid,  that  I  caught  on  the  mountain. 

Ogre.     I    don't   believe  it  !    There  is   something  else  ! 

\SniJfing.^     What  is  that  I  smell  1     It's  a  boy — I'm  sure 

it's  a  boy  !  \Jumps  up. 

Grumps.     A    boy  —  nonsense  !     Where    should   a   boy 

come  from  ?  \Siands  in  front  of  oven. 


Jack  and  the  Beanstalk  295 

Ogre.  I'm  sure  there's  a  boy  in  that  oven — and  what 
is  more,  I  mean  to  look.  \Goes  to  oven. 

Grtimps  (in  front  of  the  oven).  Very  well — if  you 
open  the  oven  now,  your  dinner  will  be  spoiled,  that's  all 
— the  kid  won't  be  done  enough. 

Ogre.  Hum,  ha — well — I  won't  look  in  it  till  after 
dinner  then — but  mind  the  kid  is  done  right,  or  I'll  throw 
you  out  of  the  window.  I'm  going  to  change  my  seven- 
leagued  boots,  and  when  I  come  back  it  must  be  ready. 

[Uxit,  singing  ^Fee,Ji,/o,/ttm.' 

Grumps  (to  Jack).  Quick,  quick  !  now  is  your  time  ! 
[Jack  comes  out.^  I  don't  think  it  would  be  safe  for  you 
to  try  to  escape  now,  as  he  might  see  you  from  the  window 
— but  he  always  goes  to  sleep  after  his  dinner — when  you 
hear  him  snore  go  gently  out.  [Puts  kim  behind  a  chest. 

Enter  Ogre,  singing,  '  Fee,  fi,fo,fum,^  &c.     Sits  down, 
ties  a  na/ikin  round  his  neck. 

Ogre.     Well,  where's  that  kid  1     Isn't  it  ready  ? 
Grumps.     Coming  -  coming — here    it  is  !    it's  no  good 
my  putting  it  on  the  table  to  get  cold  while  you're  half  a 
mile  off,  is  it  1 

Ogre.  Silence,  you  horrid  old  woman  !  or  I'll  eat  you  for- 
my  pudding.  [He  dines  :  she  waits  on  him.  Song  ad  lih.^ 
Now  then  clear  away,  old  witch — and  bring  me  my  fairy 
hen  ! 

[Grumps  goes  to  where  Jack  is  hiding   and  gets  the 
hen — he  jnits  his  head  out,   Grumps  pushes  hi  in 
dotvn  again. 
Ogre.     Now  then,   is  that  hen  coming  ?     I  never  saw 
such  a  house — the  hens  are  always  late  !  [Sings. 

Come,  make  haste — make  no  delaying  I 
Do  you  hear  what  I  am  saying  1 
If  that  hen  has  not  been  laying 
You  shall  die  this  very  day  ! 


296  Jack  and  the  Beanstalk 

Grumps  (bringing  hen).    Here  she  is,  your  call  obeying  — 
Here's   the    pretty    beast   dis- 
playing 
All  her  talents,  ever  laying 
Fifteen  golden  eggs  a  day. 

\^Repeat  together. 

Ogre.  Now  then,  what  are  you  standing  there  singing 
for  ?  Go  and  get  my  money  bag  ready — and  my  fairy 
fiddle — all  the  things  I  shall  want  \Grumps  going,  Ogre 
calls  after  her\  And  Hi  !  \^She  turns  hack.^  If  I  should 
happen  to  go  to  sleep  presently 

Grumps.  Happen  !  Why,  you  never  do  anything 
else  ! 

Ogre.  Hold  your  tongue,  you  monster — or  I  will  put 
you  into  the  oven  !  I  was  going  to  say, — I  wish  you 
to  sit  on  the  door  mat,  in  case  anyone  should  disturb  me 
if  I  should  happen  to  go  to  sleep. 

Grumps.  All  right.  Now  you  have  everything  com- 
fortable.    Your  hen  and  money  bag — and  your  armchair. 

Ogre.  I  thought  I  heard  something  behind  that  chest! 
the  dog  isn't  here,  is  he  1  I  won't  have  him  left  in  the 
I'oom. 

Grumps.     No,  no.     He  isn't  there. 

Ogre.     How  do  you  know  ?     Go  and  look. 

GruTfips  (takes  stick  and  pokes  behind  chest  where  Jack 
is,  Sh— sh  ! 

Ogre  (imitating  her).  Sh  !  indeed  !  What's  the  use 
of  that '%  Here,  give  it  to  me,  I'll  soon  see  if  the  creature  is 
there.  \Runs  at  one  s'.de  of  chest  and  bangs  stick  down. 
Jack  runs  out  at  the  other — and  the  same  at  the  other  side.^ 
There,  that's  the  way  to  do  things  !  there  doesn't  seem  to 
be  anything  there.  You  were  right  for  once  — so  you  may 
go  and  leave  me  in  peace.  [Exit  Grumps  singing.  Ogre 
strokes  hen.^  Pretty  creature  !  And  you  are  not  only 
pretty — you  are  clever — that's  better  still  !  and  not  only 


Jack  and  the  Beanstalk  297 

clever,  you  are  good,  which  is  best  of  .all  !  for  you  know 
how  to  lay  me  fifteen  golden  eggs  every  day.  Come,  where 
are  they  ?  \^Lifts  her  up  and  finds  the  ec/gs.]  Ah — that 
will  do  for  my  pocket  money  till  to-morrow— so  now  you 
may  just  wait  there  until  this  evening.  [Goes  to  sleep. 
Soft  music.  Jack  comes  out  softly —carries  the  hen  behind 
the  chest,  and  as  he  does  so  falls  over  something  with  a  crash. 
Ogre  toakes,  looks  round.]  Why,  what  was  that  ?  I'm 
sure  I  heard  a  noise — it  must  have  been  a  cinder  falling 
out  of  the  fire — or  I  woke  myself  by  snoring— though  I 
don't  believe  I  do  snore,  though  that  old  G rumps  always 
declaresvl  do.  How  tiresome  to  be  awake,  just  when  I 
was  so  comfortable  !  However,  I'll  count  my  money  now 
and  go  to  sleep  again  afterwards. 

[Draws  the  money  bag  foruards.    Sings. 

Gold !  gold  !  gold  !  gold  ! 
Bright  and  yellow,  hard  and  cold. 
Pounds  and  shillings,  pennies  too. 
All  for  me,  and  none  for  you. 

There  don't  seem  to  be  as  many  as  there  were  last  time. 
I  believe  Grumps  has  been  taking  some  !  I'll  hang  her 
up  to  the  top  of  the  castle  presently,  if  I  remember  it. 
[Makes  a  knot  in  nightcap.]  There,  that  will  remind 
me.  [Ties  up  bag.]  There — there  are  a  great  many 
starving  people  in  the  world  who  would  be  glad  to 
have  only  a  little  of  what  that  bag  contains — Ha,  ha  ! 
they  shan't  have  any  of  it  — I'll  keep  it  all  for  myself — 
every  bit  !  [Puts  money  bag  behind  his  chair,  where  it 
rolls  doum.]  Now  I'll  see  if  I  can't  go  to  sleep  again. 
[Music  as  before.  Ogre  snores.  Jack  comes  out,  and  tries 
to  draw  m,oney  bag — it  is  too  heavy — at  last  he  succeeds,  but 
rolls  over  with  it.  Ogre  starts  up.  Jack  lies  down  behind 
the  bag.]  Why,  it's  that  stupid  money  bag  that  has  rolled 
over — stupid  of  me  not  to  put  it  up  safely  !     [Going  to 


298  Jack  and  the  Beanstalk 

sltip.p — Jack  creeps  out — Oyre  starts  up  again — Jack  goes 
back.^  It's  no  use — I  can't  do  it  !  I'll  make  Mrs.  Grumps 
come  and  play  me  to  sleep.  Here — Grumps  !  Come  ! 
[Enter  Grump8J\  Why  don't  you  come  more  quickly  ? 
Where  are  you  1 

Grumps.     I  was  on  the  door  mat,  of  course. 
Ogre.     It's  very  kind  of  me  to  let  you  sit  there — very 
kind,  do  you  hear  ? 

Grumps.     I  hear — yes. 

Ogre.  Then  don't  presume  to  answer.  Take  my  fairy 
violin  and  play  me  to  sleep,  and  mind  you  don't  make  any 
of  those  squeaks,  or  I'll  wring  your  neck. 

\Gr limps  2ylays.    The  Ogre  hums  the  tune  she  is  plaip 

ing,  and  gradually  goes  off.    She  fays  down  the 

violin  and  makes  a  sign  to  Jack,  he  comes  out 

quietly. 

Grumps  (whispering).     Follow  me  quietly,  and  I  will  go 

on  and  open  the  doors. 

[Takes  big  keys  off  Ogre's  lap  and  exit. 
Jack  (aside).  Yes — but  I'll  take  a  few  of  these  things 
with  me  !  [Pushes  the  money  bag  out  of  the  tvindow — 
takes  the.  hen  under  one  ai'm  and  tlie  violin  under  the  other. ^ 
Now  I'll  make  a  rush  past  her  and  get  down  the  beanstalk 
and  take  these  home  to  my  mother. 

[  Violin    heard    squeaking    and    calling    '  Master ! 
master  ! '  louder  and  louder. 

Enter  Grumps. 

Grum^ps.     Where  is  he  1     Quick,  quick,  you  will  have 

time  to  get  away  before   he  wakes.     Why,   where  is  he  ? 

Alas  !  alas  !  he  is  gone — the  ungrateful  little  wretch — and 

he  has  taken  everything  with  him.     Oli,  what  shall  I  do  ? 

[  Violin  heard  calling.     Ogre  wakes. 

Ogre.  What,  why  are  all  the  noises  in  Christendom 
turned  loose  here  to-day  ?    What  is  all  this  %    [  Wakes  quite 


Jack  and  the  Beanstalk  299 

}ip,  and  sees  Grumps.  She  rushes  out  with  a  shriek.^  Wluit 
is  all  this  ?  [Puts  his  cap  straight.^  Ha,  what  is  this  knot 
Ha  - 1  remember,  Grumps  ! 

[Dashes  out  singing,  '  Fee,fi,fo,fum  !  ' 

Curtain. 


ACT  III. 

Scene. — 3frs.  Brown's  house.     Mrs.  Brown  and  Jack 
beautifully  dressed. 

Jack.     How  comfortable  we  are,  mother  ! 

Mrs.  Brown.  Yes,  and  what  beautiful  clothes  we  have 
on  ! 

Jack.  It  seems  a  great  fleal  more  than  a  week  since  I 
sold  the  cow,  doesn't  it  1 

Mrs.  Brown.  Yes,  indeed  it  does.  I  was  quite  in 
despair  that  day,  till  I  saw  you  coming  back  again  with  the 
fairy  hen,  the  money  bag  and  the  violin. 

Jack.  And  ever  since  we  have  had  everything  we  can 
wish  for,  and  we  have  been  able  to  feed  all  the  poor  people 
in  the  village  besides. 

Mrs.  Brown.  That  reminds  me — I  said  I  would  go  out 
to  see  neighbour  Hodge — but  it  is  too  muddy  to  walk,  so  I 
have  ordered  the  carriage. 

Jack.  Which  one  ?  The  open  one  drawn  by  six  cream- 
coloured  horses  1 

Mrs.  Brown.  No — I  think  it  is  too  cold  for  that — I 
shall  go  in  the  shut  glass  coach,  drawn  by  eight  piebalds. 
I  am  so  accustomed  to  driving  now  ! 

Jack.  You  see  how  right  I  was  to  climb  up  to  the 
Ogre's  castle  and  get  all  these  things  for  you  !  But, 
mother,  I  do  wonder  what  he  has  done  without  them  ! 
Don't  you  sometimes  wonder  how  it  is  he  has  never  come 
to  look  for  them  ? 


300  Jack  and  the  Beanstalk 

Mrs.  Brown.  Oh — what  a  horrible  idea  !  Suppose  he 
were  to  come  ! 

Jack.  I  never  thought  of  tliat— I  almost  think  it 
would  be  safest  to  cut  the  beanstalk  down,  as  then  tliere 
will  be  no  way  for  him  to  come, 

Mrs.  Broivn.  I  think  it  would — but  what  a  pity  it 
seems — that  dear  beanstalk,  to  which  we  owe  so  much  I 
[Gets  lip  and  looks  out  of  window  at  it.  She  starts  back.^ 
Jack  !  Jack  !  It  is  too  late  !  See — see— there  is  some  one 
coming  down  it  from  the  sky— a  gigantic  form—  it  must  be 
the  Ogre  ! 

Jack.  It  is — it  is  the  Ogre  !  Where  is  my  hatchet  ? 
Quick  !  [Seizes  hatchet  and  rushes  out. 

Mrs.  Brown.  Stay — stay  !  Jack  !  Here  !  Oh  !  [Then 
watching  from  windoiv].  The  Ogre  has  reached  the  ground 
—  he  has  drawn  his  sword  — Jack  has  attacked  him  !  The 
Ogre  has  struck  at  him,  Jack  has  jumped  aside — he  has  cut 
off  the  Ogre's  legs  with  his  axe — the  Ogre  falls — Jack  has 
cut  off  his  head  !     Ah — my  brave  boy  ! 

Enter  Jack  with  the  Ogre's  head. 

Jack.     There,  mother— there  is  the  monster's  head,  he 

will  never  trouble  us  any  more — and  as  for  poor  Grumps, 

his  companion,  I  believe  he  killed  her  the  day  I  left  the 

castle.     So  now  we  can  be  happy  for  the  rest  of  our  days. 

[They  dance  round  it.     As  they  leave  off  a  knock  is 

heard  at  the  door. 

Mrs.  Brown.     Oh — who  can  that  be — not  another  Ogre  ? 

Jack.  No,  I  don't  think  that  is  very  likely  !  Besides, 
he'll  soon  go  away  when  he  sees  that  !  [Pointing  to  head.] 
Come  in  ! 

Enter  Countryman,  rmich  better  dressed. 

Jack.     Mr.  Barleycorn  ! 

Countryman.     That  is  my  name  certainly,  but  I  think 


Jack  and  the  Beanstalk  301 

T  must  have  niade  a  mistake.     \IjOok%ng  round.^     This  is 
not  the  house  that  stood  here  before,  surely  1 

Mrs.  Brown.  Yes,  it  is  only  rather  differently  fur- 
nished ! 

Countryman  (sees  liead  and  starts).  That  ornament  is 
new,  certainly,  since  I  was  here.  Then  you  are  the  lady 
who  wouldn't  dance  with  me  ? 

Mrs.  Brown.  And  you  are  the  gentleman  who  bought 
my  poor  Brindle  for  some  beans  1 

Countryman.    Exactly — I  am,  and  a  very  good  cow  she 

was.     I  came  to  know  if  you  could  sell  me  another  like  her. 

Mrs.  Brown.     Well,  I  must  say  I  wonder  you  dare  show 

your  face  here  again  after  deceiving  my  innocent  boy  in  the 

way  you  did  about  those  beans  ! 

Jack.  Come,  come,  mother,  after  all  you  need  not  com- 
plain of  the  beans,  for  they  have  been  the  cause  of  all  our 
good  luck. 

Mrs.  Brown.  It  is  quite  true.  (To  Countryman)  I 
forgive  you,  and  I  hope  you  have  taken  good  care  of  my 
pretty  Brindle. 

Countryman.  Indeed  I  have.  She  has  brought  me 
good  luck,  too — ever  since  I  had  her  I  have  been  growing 
richer  and  richer. 

Jack.  Then,  you  see,  our  bargain  was  a  good  one  after 
all  !  For  if  it  had  not  been  for  you  I  should  never  have 
climbed  up  the  beanstalk. 

Then  there's  my  hand, 

My  trusty  friend, 

To  fortune  'twas  the  way  ! 

We  ne'er  again 

Shall  have,  'tis  plain, 

The  chance  we  had  that  day  ! 

[^Repeat  toget/ier  and  dance. 

Curtain. 


302 


BEAUTY  AND   THE  BEAST 

A  ROMANTJC  BBAMA    FOR    CHILBRElSr 

IN  SIX  SCENES. 

CHARACTERS. 
Abou  Cassim  (a  rich  merchant). 

ZULEIKA  j 

Ayesha    >(his  daughters). 
Fatima   ' 

Pbince  Fureyskin. 
MoLiNKO  (his  servant). 

Sci;xE  l.—Abou    Cassinis   house.     Zxl.    and   Ay.    loritinrji 
at  different  tables. 

Ziil.     What  are  you  writing,  sister  Ayesha  1 

Ay.  I'm  making  a  list  of  all  the  things  I  want  father 
to  buy  me  when  he  is  away.  What  are  you  writing,  sister 
Zuleika  1 

Zul.  I'm  doing  the  same  thing  —but  it  is  so  tiresome,  I 
can't  remember  any  of  the  things  I  want. 

Ay.  Can't  you  1  poor  thing  !  I  can.  I've  put  clown 
twenty-nine  things  on  my  list. 

Zul.    Twenty-nine?  dear  me  !  and  I  have  only  seventeen 
on  mine  !     It  is  hardly  worth  while  making  a  list  at  all  ! 
[Abou  Cassim  heard  calling  outside 

Ah.  C.    Zuleika,  Ayesha,  Fatima  ! 

Zul.  and  Ay.     Yes,  father. 


Beauty  and  the  Beast  303 

Enter  Abou  Cassiin,  still  calling. 

Ah.  C.  Zuleika — Ayesha — Fatima  I  where  is  every- 
l)f>dy  ?  why  don't  you  answer  when  you  are  called  ?  why 
don't  you  came  and  help  me  to  pack  my  things  1 

Zul.     Oh,  father,  I  am  so  sorry.     I  was  just  coming. 

Ab.  C.  Just  coming — what's  the  good  of  that  ?  I'm  just 
going  I  you'll  make  me  miss  my  camel  !     I  said  he  was  to 

be  at  the  door  at  3  o'clock,  and  it  is  now [^Looks  at  the 

HKii.^  I  never  can  remember  where  the  sun  ought  to  be  in 
the  afternoon.     I  wish  people  used  watches  in  Turkey. 

Ay.  Oh,  father,  some  day  you  must  go  a  long  way 
across  the  sea,  to  buy  me  a  real  gold  watch,  like  the  one 
you  told  me  about  once. 

Ab.  C.  I  dare  say  I  you  think  that  your  father  has 
nothing  to  do  but  go  shopping  for  you  !  Where  is  Fatima, 
my  dear  youngest  girl  1  she  is  the  only  one  that  is  any  use 
to  me.  when  I  am  starting  on  my  travels.    Fatima  —  Beauty! 

[Goes  u/t,  C. 

Zul.  (to  Ay.)  It  makes  me  sick  to  hear  her  called 
Beauty. 

Ay.  So  it  does  me.  She's  no  more  a  beauty  than  we 
are  ! 

Zul.     Not  half  so  much. 

Enter  Fatima — sJis  throws  lierself  into  Abou  Cassim's 
arms. 

Fat.  Dear,  dear  father  !  I  wish  you  were  not  going 
away. 

Ab.  C.  Yes,  my  darling,  so  do  I — never  mind,  I  shall 
soon  l)e  back  again. 

Fat.  I've  packed  all  your  things,  father,  and  got  every- 
thing ready. 

Ab.  C.  There's  a  good  little  girl.  [Conies  forward.] 
Now,  am  I  to  bring  you  anything  back  this  time  ? 


304  Beauty  and  the  Beast 

Zul.  and  Ay.     Oh,  yes,  father  ! 

Ah.  C.     What  would  you  like  1 

Zul.  and  Ay.  (unrolling  lists).     We've  made  a  list. 

Ab.  C.  (horrified).  Made  a  list — upon  my  word,  you 
have  !  You  don't  expect  ine  to  bring  back  all  those  things, 
do  you  1  Why,  I  should  have  to  buy  two  extra  camels  and 
hree  ostriches,  to  carry  the  parcels  across  the  desert. 

Zul.  Oh,  but  I  assure  you,  father,  they  are  things  we 
really  want. 

Ay.     That  we  couldn't  possibly  do  without. 

Zul.  (reads).     An  embroidered  sash 

Ay.  (reads).     A  pair  of  golden  slippers 

Zul.     A  silk  veil 

Ay.     A  new  turban 

Zul.     Some  diamond  earrings ■ 

Ay.     A  new-fashioned  skirt 

Zid.     Some  spangled  muslin  

Ay.     A  tame  monkey 

Zid.     A  l)OX  of  sweetmeats 

Ay.     A  white  ass 

Zul.     A  gold  necklace 

Ay.     A  tall  turban- 


Ab.  C:  Stop,  stop !  here,  give  me  the  lists,  and  if  I  can 
I  will  bring  you  each  a  present.  (To  Fat.)  And  what 
would  you  like,  my  darling  ? 

Fat.  Oh,  father  dear,  if  you  only  come  back  safe  I 
want  nothing  else. 

Zul.  (aside).     Little  humbug  ! 

Ab.  C.     What,  nothing  at  all  ? 

Fat.  Well  then,  bring  me  a  rose— just  one  beautiful 
rose — nothing  more. 

Ab.  C.  A  red  rose — very  well,  I  will  bring  it.  Good- 
bye, then,  my  children. 

\^Fat.  dries  her  eyes — Zul.  and  Ay.  crying  loudly. 

Ah.  C.     Why,  what  a  fuss  about  nothing  !     Is  a  man 


Beauty  and  the  Beast  305 

never  to  go  away  from  home  on  business  without  having  all 
his  womankind  boohooing  like  this  ? 

Zul.     Oh,  father,  we're  so  afraid  ! 

Ah.  C.  Afraid  of  what  ?  that  I  shall  be  lost  in  the 
desert  ? 

ZuL    No — that  you  will  forget  some  of  our  commissions  ! 

Ah.  G.     Nonsense  !     I  must  be  off. 

Fat.     Take  care  of  yourself,  dear  father. 

Zul.     Don't  mount  your  camel  till  he  is  kneeling. 

Ay.     And  don't  fall  off  as  he  gets  up  again. 

Finale.     Tune — *  My  Maryland.^ 

Fat.     Oh,  come  back  to  your  daughters  soon,  dear  papa, 

oh  dear  papa. 
Ay.     We  don't  like  being  left  alone,  dear  papa,  oh,  dear 

papa, 
Zul.         When  you  are  gone,  we  cry  all  day. 

We  don't  know  what  to  do  or  say. 
Zul.,  Ay.,  and  Fat.     We  wish  you  would  not  go  away, 

dear  papa,  oh,  dear  papa. 
Ah.  C.     I'm  sorry  thus  to  cause  you  pain,  your  deai 
papa,  your  dear  papa. 
I'll  soon  come  back  to   you  again,  your  dear 
papa,  your  dear  papa. 
But  I'm  a  merchant,  as  you  know, 
And  that  is  why  I  travel  so. 
I  buy  and  sell,  I  come  and  go,  your  dear  papa, 
your  dear  papa. 
\Exit  Ahou  Cassim.     Zul.,  Ay.,  Fat.  sitting   in  a 
row — Zul.  R.—Fat.  C. — Ay.  L. 
Fat.     Oh  dear,  I  wish  father  were  not  gone. 
Zul.     Well,  it  is  no  use  wishing — what  shall  we  do  to 
amuse  ourselves  % 

Ay.     Shall  we  go  out  ? 

Zul.     I  don't  care  about  going  out — shall  we  stay  in  ? 


3o6  Beauty  and  the  Beast 

Fat.  I  don't  cai-e  about  staying  in,  unless  we  do  some- 
thing.    Shall  we  make  toffee  ? 

Ay>  I  don't  care  about  making  toffee.  Shall  we  blow 
soap  bubbles  1 

Zul.  I  don't  care  about  blowing  soap  bubbles.  Shall 
we  paint  ? 

Fat.     I  don't  care  about  painting.  \^All  sit  silent. 

Ay.     I  have  an  idea. 

Zul.  and  Fat.     What  ? 

Ay.     Let  us  dance  !  [All  clap  hands. 

Zul.     Oh  yes  ! 

Fat.     Do  let  us  dance  !  [All  dance. 

Curtain. 

Scene  II. — Prince  Furryskin^s  garden.     Prince  alone. 

Pr.  Dear  me — how  tiresome  it  is  to  be  a  beast  ! 
especially  for  a  person  who  really  ought  to  be  a  beautiful 
young  prince,  dressed  in  blue  and  silver,  instead  of  having 
this  horrid  hairy  skin  on.  I  wish  a  wicked  fairy  had  not 
enchanted  me  at  my  birth  !  it  is  very  inconvenient.  And 
the  worst  of  it  is,  that  I  shall  never  turn  into  a  young  prince 
again  until  a  beautiful  girl  tells  me  she  loves  me — as  if  it 
were  likely  that  a  beautiful  girl  would  say  anything  of  tjie 
kind  to  me  !  Well,  well — it  can't  be  helped,  I  suppose — I 
must  try  and  amuse  myself  with  my  flowers,  and  see  if  I 
can't  forget  how  ugly  and  hairy  I  am.  [  Walks  ahout.^  My 
pinks  are  looking  very  nice,  certainly,  and  my  Canterbury 
bells — and  my  dahlias  are  pretty  good — but  my  roses  have 
been  very  bad  this  year.  However,  I  see  there  is  one  red 
rose  on  my  favourite  tree — I  must  tell  the  gardener  not 
to  gather  it,  I  like  seeing  it  grow  on  the  tree  best.  This 
is  certainly  a  very  nice  garden,  and  if  I  were  not  a  beast 
I  should  enjoy  it  very  much. 

[Gathers  a  pink.     Strolls  off,  R. 


Beauty  and  the  Beast  307 

Enter  Abo  a  Cassiin,  carrying  bundles. 
Ab.  C.  Now  I  really  think  I  have  got  as  many  things 
for  those  girls  as  I  can  well  carry — I  had  to  leave  the  rest 
in  the  desert.  The  only  thing  I  have  not  yet  got  is  the 
rose  that  Beauty  asked  me  for — I  came  through  this  beau- 
tiful garden  in  hopes  of  finding  one.  Ha — there  is  exactly 
what  I  want. 

Enter  Prince,  R.     Ab.  C.  gathers  rose.     Pr.  rushes  at  him. 

Pr.  Wretch  !  [Seizes  him  by  the  collar.  Ab.  C.  drops 
rose  ]     Who  are  you,  who  dare  to  pluck  my  favourite  rose  'I 

Ab.  C.  I'm  very  sorry,  I'm  sure — I  did  not  know  it 
was  your  rose. 

Pr.     But  you  knew  it  wasn't  yours,  I  suppose  ? 

Ab.  C.     Well,  yes — ^I  must  confess  I  did. 

Pi'.  Then  if  you  knew  it  wasn't  yours,  you  knew  that 
you  were  stealing— and  if  you  were  stealing,  you  are  a 
thief — and  if  you  are  a  thief,  you  must  have  your  head  cut 
off! 

Ah.  C.  Oh,  sir  —pray  don't  cut  off  my  head — I  couldn't 
see  my  way  home  if  you  did. 

Pr.  See  your  way  home  1  don't  you  wish  you  may  get 
there  1    Do  you  know  who  I  am  ? 

Ab.  C.  I  really  can't  say — I  think  I've  seen  some  one 
very  like  you  before,  but  perhaps  it  was  at  the  Zoo.  Are 
you  a  bear  very  like  a  man,  or  a  man  very  like  a  bear  1 

Pr.  Never  you  mind  which  — it  is  just  the  same  to  you, 
as  I'm  going  to  kill  you  and  eat  you  in  about  a  minute  and 
a  half.     Taking  my  rose  that  I  loved  so  ! 

Ab.  C.  Oh,  your  lordship — your  beastship,  I  mean — it 
was  not  for  myself  I  took  the  rose — I  took  it  for  iny 
daughter,  my  youngest  daughter,  Beauty,  whom  T  love  more 
dearly  than  you  love  your  flowers. 

Pr.  (starts).  Your  daughter,  did  you  say  1  Is  she 
beautiful  at  all  ? 

x2 


308  Beauty  and  the  Beast 

Ah.  C.  Very,  very  beautiful — she  is  considered  par- 
ticularly like  her  father. 

/v.  Oh — indeed — she  must  be  a  beauty  then  !  What 
will  you  give  me  if  I  spare  your  worthless  life  ? 

Ah.  C.     Anything  you  like  to  ask. 

Pr.  Well—  promise  to  give  me  the  first  living  thing  you 
meet  wlien  you  get  inside  your  garden,  and  I  will  let  you 
go  free. 

Ah.  C.  (kneeling).  Oh,  most  generous  beast  !  how  can 
I  thank  you  1 

Pr.  By  getting  up  and  taking  yourself  off,  and  not 
making  marks  on  my  gravel  path.  I'm  very  particular 
about  my  garden,  as  you  may  have  observed. 

Duet — Finale. 

Pr.  Now  please  walk  out  at  my  garden  gate — 

You'll  find  it  is  better  for  you  not  to  wait, 
In  case  I  might  take  such  a  fancy  to  you 
I  might  gobble  you  up  in  a  minute  or  two, 
And  then  of  you  there'd  be  nothing  more. 
So  I  think  you  had  better  get  out  of  the  door- 

Ab.  C.    Very  well,  I'll  walk  out  of  your  garden  gate — 
I  think  it  is  better  for  me  not  to  wait. 
In  case  you  might  take  such  a  fancy  to  me 
You  might  gobble  me  up  in  a  minute  or  three, 
And  then  of  me  there'd  be  nothing  more, 
So  I  think  I  had  better  get  out  of  the  door. 

Curtain. 

Scene  III. —  Outside  Abou  Cassini's  house. 

Ab.  C.  Not  a  dog  or  a  cat  to  be  seen  !  I  promised  that 
]5east,  or  Prince,  or  whatever  he  calls  himself,  to  send  him 
the  first  living  thing  I  met  on  my  way  home — and  I  haven't 
seen  so  much  as  a  spider  since  I  got  inside  the  gate  ! 

[Beauty  runs  out. 


Beauty  and  the  Beast  309 

Fat.     Dear,  dear  father  !    how  glad  I  am  to  see  you  ! 

Ah.  C.     Fatima,  my  child — alas  !  alas  ! 

Fat.  Why,  father,  are  not  you  glad  to  see  me  ?  And  I 
have  been  watching  for  you  every  day  from  the  top  of  the 
house  !  and  you've  got  my  rose,  too  !  thank  you  so  much. 

\Sinells  It. 

Zul.  and  Ay.  Oh,  father  !  is  it  you  1  Have  you  brought 
our  things  ? 

Ah.  C.  I  got  them,  yes — but  there  were  so  many  of 
them  that  the  camel  who  carried  them  died  of  fatigue  in 
crossing  the  desert,  and  the  eagles  ate  the  camel  and  the 
parcels  too — and  so  I  have  nothing. 

Zul.     Oh,  father  I    how  could  you  ? 

Ay.     How  couldn't  you  ?  \^Both  sob. 

Ah.  C.  Parcels,  indeed — as  if  that  were  all  we  have  to 
care  about.  There's  worse  than  that,  I  can  tell  you.  I 
liave — I  have [Sobs  loudly. 

Zul.,  Ay.,  Fat.     What,  father,  what  1 

Ab.  C.     I  have  sold  my  daughter  to  a  beast ! 

Zul.     Your  daughter,  which  ? 

Ab.  C.  (covers  his  face  with  his  hands  and  points  to 
Fatima).     That  one  ! 

Zul.  and  Ay.     Thank  goodness  ! 

[Fat.  falls  into  herfatJier^s  arms. 

Curtain. 

Scene  IV. — Prince  Furryskin's  dining-room. 

Pr.    (calls).     Molinko  !    Molinko  !    Where  is  that  boy 
gone  1   I  never  knew  such  a  tiresome  servant  !     Molinko  ! 
Jfol.  (behind.)     What's  the  matter  now  ? 
Pr.     Come  here,  directly. 

Enter  Molinko. 

Mol.     Well,  here  I  am. 

Pr.     Didn't  you  hear  me  calling  you  ? 


3  lo  Beauty  and  the  Beast 

Mol.     Of  course  I  did. 

Pr.     Then  why  didn't  you  come  ? 

Mol.     Because  I  was  waiting  till  you  left  off. 

Pr.     Have  you  done  all  the  things  I  told  you  ? 

Mol.     No. 

Fr.  Didn't  I  tell  you  that  I  dreamt  the  merchant 
would  bring  his  beautiful  daughter  here  to-day  %  and  that 
you  were  to  get  everything  ready  % 

Mol.     Yes. 

Pr.     And  is  it  ready  % 

Mol.     No. 

Pr.     Why  not  % 

Mol.     Because  it  isn't. 

Pr.  Now  listen — you  ai'e  to  put  lovely  flowers  in  her 
room — silken  sheets  on  her  bed— embroidered  curtains  to 
her  windows — all  the  most  beautiful  things  you  can  think 
of.     Do  you  hear  % 

Mol.     Yes. 

Pr.  And  the  dinner  must  be  lovely  too — all  kinds  of 
nice  things  to  eat — sweetmeats — raisins — jam — fruits — 
chocolate 

Mol.     Yes. 

Pr.     And  lay  the  table  for  two — I  will  dine  with  her. 

\Exit  Prince. 

Mol.  (alone.)  \Lays  Table. ^  Why,  there's  nothing  but 
work  from  morning  till  night  here  ! 

Bong.     Tune — '  So  Early  in  the  Morning.' 

I  have  to  work  so  hard  all  day, 
That  I  have  never  time  to  play — 
I'm  butler,  gi'oom,  and  housemaid  too, 
I've  got  too  much  hard  work  to  do. 
From  early  in  the  morning, 
From  early  in  the  morning, 
From  early  in  the  morning, 
Until  the  break  of  day. 


Beauty  and  the  Beast  3 1 1 

Enter  Fatima — looks  round. 

Fat.     I  thought  I  heard  singing — was  that  you  ? 

Mol.     Yes. 

Fat.     And  who  are  you  1 

Mol.  I'm  Molinko,  the  Prince's  servant.  And  who 
are  you  1 

Fat.     I'm  Fatima,  Abou  Cassim's  daughter. 

Mol.     Then  you're  the  lady  who  is  coming  to  dinner  ? 

Fat.     I  suppose  so — is  it  ready  ? 

31  ol.     No,  it  isn't — nothing's  ready. 

Fat.     Nothing  1 

Mol.  No,  nothing — your  bed  isn't — nor  your  room, 
nor  your  curtains,  nor  your  silk  sheets,  nor  anything  !  so 
now  ! 

Fat.     Well,  well — don't  be  angry — I  don't  mind. 

Mol.     That's  a  good  thing. 

l^Bepeats  song — Fat.  joins  in  chorvs. 

Mol.     I'll  go  and  tell  my  master  you  are  here. 

[Exit  Mol. 

Fat.  Alas— how  strange  to  be  here,  away  from  all 
those  I  love.  I  wonder  what  tliey  ai'e  doing  in  my  home, 
my  dear  old  home  ? 

Song. 

Mid  pleasures  and  palaces  though  we  raaj'  roam, 
Be  it  ever  so  humble,  there's  no  place  like  home. 
A  charm  from  the  skies  seems  to  hallow  us  there, 
Which  seek  through  the  world  is  ne'er  met  with 
elsewhere  ; 
Home,  home,  sweet,  sweet  home  ; 
Be  it  ever  so  humble  there's  no  place  like  home. 

Enter  Prince.     Fat.  starts  up. 

Pr.     Don't  be  frightened  !     I'm  not  dangerous. 
Fat.     Are  you  sure  ? 


312  '  Beauty  and  the  Beast 

Pr.  Quite.  Beautiful  damsel,  are  you  Abou  Cassim's 
daughter  ? 

Fat.     I  am — his  youngest  daughter. 

Pr.     His  beloved  daughter  Beauty,  of  whom  he  spoke  ? 

Fat.     The  same. 

Pr.  He  is  right  to  call  you  Beauty — you  are  very 
beautiful. 

Fat.     I'm  glad  you  think  so. 

Pr.  But  alas — I  will  not  ask  you  if  you  think  me 
beautiful. 

Fat.     No,  I  wouldn't,  if  I  were  you. 

Pr.     Am  I  too  ugly  for  you  to  dine  with  me  ? 

Fat.     Not  if  you  have  nice  things  for  dinner. 

Pr.  You  shall  have  the  best  of  everything  I  can  give 
you.     Here  Molinko  ! 

Mol.  (behind).     Yes  ! 

Pr.     Be  quick,  lazy  bones  ! 

Enter  Mol. 

Mol.     I'm  being  as  quick  as  I  can,  long  claws  ! 

Pr.  (to  Fat).  What  may  I  give  you — some  Turkish 
delight  ? 

Fat.     Please. 

Pr.  Oh,  how  Turkish  delightful  it  is  to  see  you  eat  it  ! 
Have  some  lemonade  ? 

Fat.     Please.  [They  drink.     Prince  sings. 

Sotig. 

Drink  to  me  only  with  thine  eyes, 

And  I  will  pledge  with  mine — 
Or  leave  a  kiss  within  the  cup, 

And  I'll  not  ask  for  wine. 
The  thirst  that  from  the  soul  doth  s(  rirg, 

Doth  a?k  a  drink  divine — 
But  might  I  of  Jove's  nectar  sip, 

I  would  not  change  with  thine. 


Beauty  and  the  Beast  3 1 3 

Pr.     Beauty,  you  like  me  better  now,  don't  you  ? 

Fat.     Oh,  yes,  much  ! 

Pr.     Do  you  think  you  could  say  you  loved  me  % 

Fat.  Oh  no — certainly  not.  Now  I  should  like  to  go 
back  to  ray  father  again,  please. 

Pr.     What,  and  leave  me  ? 

Fat.     Yes,  please. 

Pr.     Then  I  shall  die  of  grief. 

Fat.     Oh,  no,  you  won't. 

Pr.  You  shall  do  as  you  like,  Fatima,  you  shall  not 
think  me  unkind  as  well  as  ugly — but  tirst  would  you  like 
to  take  a  turn  round  the  garden,  and  see  if  I  can  find 
another  rose  for  you  % 

Fat.     Yes,  please.  ^ExeuiU. 

Curtain. 


Scene  Y.—  Same  as  Scene  I.  Abou  Cassim^s  drawing- 
room.  Zul.  R. — Fat.,  Ay.,  Ah.  C.  L.  Smoking  and 
reading. 

Zul.     Well,  Beauty — well  ?  tell  us  all  about  it. 

Ay.     What  is  the  beast  like  ? 

Fat.     He  was  very  nice  and  kind. 

Zul.     But  what  was  he  like  to  look  at,  I  mean  ? 

Fat.  He  is  all  over  hair — and  he  has  great  furry  ears, 
and  I  dare  say  he  has  claws  too,  but  I  didn't  see  them. 

Ay.     And  what  did  you  have  for  dinner  ? 

Fat.     Oh,  all  kinds  of  nice  things. 

Zul.  I  do  wish  we  had  been  there  !  why  didn't  you 
stay,  you  silly  girl  1 

Fat.  Because  I  wanted  to  come  back  and  see  you  all 
again. 

Ah.  C.  Good  girl.  Beauty,  very  good  girl,  she  likes  her 
home  best — that's  what  all  good  girls  do. 


3 1 4  Beauty  and  the  Beast 

Ay.     And  didn't  he  give  you  any  presents  ? 

Ab.  C.     You  think  of  notliing  but  presents. 

Fat.  Yes,  he  gave  me  this  looking-glass. 

Ztd.     Oh,  delightful  !  let  me  see. 

Ay.     And  me  ! 

{They  take  the  glass  and  look  at  themselves  in  it  — 
then  turn  away  disappointed. 

Ay.     Why,  we  can't  see  ourselves  in  it  ! 

Fat.     Ko  —  it's  a  fairy  looking-glass. 

Zul,     What's  the  good  of  that  ? 

Fat.     Nobody  can  see  anything  in  it  but  me. 

Ay.     What  a  shame  ! 

Fat.     And  I  can't  see  anything  in  it  but  the  Beast. 

Zul.  and  Ay.     Oh,  how  horrid  ! 

Fat.  By  looking  in  this  glass  I  can  always  see  if  he  is 
well,  when  I  am  away  from  him.  [Sta7'ts.^  Oh,  look — he 
is  ill — he  is  dying — he  is  lying  on  the  ground  in  the  garden 
— I  must  go  to  him — quick — quick  !  [B^ms  out. 

Zul.     Father,  T  should  like  to  go  too. 

Ab.  C.  Go  too?  nonsense,  you're  not  wanted  — mustn't 
go  to  places  without  being  asked  ! 

Ay.     Oh,  do  let  us  go — it  would  be  such  fun. 

Zul.  Besides,  perhaps  the  Beast  is  dead  by  this  time, 
and  then  he  won't  mind. 

Ab.  C.  Well,  well,  we'll  see  when  I've  finished  my 
pipe — you  must  leave  me  in  peace  till  then. 

Ay.  Come  along,  then,  Zuleika,  we'll  go  and  put  on  our 
things. 

Zul.     Oh,  what  fun  it  will  be  !      [Exeunt  Zul.  and  Ay. 

Curtain. 


Beauty  and  the  Beast  3 1 5 

Scene  VI. — The  Princess  garden. 

Fat.  Where  are  you,  my  dear  Beast  ?  [Starts.^  Oh, 
there  you  are  !  [^Kn-eels  by  him.^  Alas  !  I  fear  you  are 
dead — I  have  killed  you.  Beast — wake  up — I  am  here — 
it  is  Beauty  come  back  to  you  !  Dear  Beast,  I  wish  you 
would  get  up  — I  like  you  so  much  now — I'm  very  sorry 
I  didn't  say  I  loved  you — I  do  really — I  love  you  very 
much  !  [The  Beast  springs  uj)— his  fur  falls  off. 

Pr.  Beauty,  my  love  !  you  have  turned  me  into  a 
prince  again  ! 

Fat.     AVhat  !  are  you  the  same  who  was  a  beast  ? 

Pr.  Of  course  I  am — and  now  I  am  never  going  to  be 
a  beast  any  more,  but  a  beautiful  young  prince. 

Fat.     Oh,  how  nice  ! 

Pr.  And  if  you  will  many  me,  you  shall  be  a  beau- 
tiful young  princess  ! 

Fat.     That's  nicer  still  !     Of  course  I  will,  then  ! 

Duet.     Air — '  La  ci  darem! 

Pr.     Then  I  will  be  your  husband, 
And  you  shall  be  my  wife  ; 
We  will  love  each  other,  and  lead  a  happy  life. 

Enter  Zul.  and  Ay.,  followed  by  Ab.  C. 

Zul.     Why,  what's  all  this  about  ? 

Ay.     W^ho  is  this  young  man  1 

Pr.     I'm  Prince  Furryskin,  at  your  ser^^ce. 

Fat.     And  I'm  going  to  be  the  Princess  Furryskin. 

Zul.  (to  Fat),     Then  why  did  you  say  he  was  a  beast  ? 

Ay.     What  horrid  stories  you  told  us  ! 

Fat.  I  didn't  te!l  stories — he  was  a  beast — wasn't  he, 
papa  ? 

Ab.  C.  He  certainly  was  the  last  time  I  saw  him — a 
regular  beast,  I'll  answer  for  that. 


3 1 6  Beauty  and  the  Beast 

Pr.  Dear  ladies,  don't  be  angry — I  will  tell  you  how 
it  was — a  wicked  fairy  turned  me  into  a  beast,  and  said 
I  shouldn't  turn  back  into  a  prince  again  till  a  beautiful 
girl  said  she  loved  me. 

Fat.  And  so  when  I  said  I  loved  him,  he  jumped  up 
and  turned  into  a  prince. 

Pr.  And  now  you  have  all  come,  I  hope  you  will  stay 
to  dinner.  (Calls)  Here,  Molinko  !  where's  the  lazy 
beggar  now  1  here  Molinko  ! 

Enter  Molinko: 

Mol.     Yes  ! 
Pr.     Is  dinner  ready  1 
Mol.     No ! 

Pr.     We  shall  be  six  to  dinner — can  you  manage  that? 
Mol     No. 

Fat.     Oh,  yes  you  can,  dear  Molinko — and  we'll  help 
you  to  get  it  ready — -may  we  ? 
Mol.     Yes. 

Pr.     And  then  we'll  be  married. 
Fat.     And  I  shall  be  a  princess. 
.  ZuL  and  Ay.     And  we  will  be  the  bridesmaids. 
Ah.  C.     And  I  will  be  the  father-in-law. 
Mol.     And  I'll  eat  the  wedding  cake. 

Finale,     Tune — '  The  Young  Recruit.' 

And  we'll  be  a  merry  party 

On  this  happy  wedding  day  (Ws) : 

We  will  all  be  gay  and  hearty 
As  we  dance  and  sing  and  play. 
Tra  la  la  la  la,  &c. 

Curtain. 


317 


THE  SUEPEISE* 

CHARACTERS. 

Dinah.        Patiknce.        Edith.  Jack- 

pEGttv.         Dick.  Harold.  Lucy. 

Enter  Dinah,  on  tiptoe. 
Din.     Nobody  knows  what  I  know. 

Enter  Harold. 

Din.  Hush,  Harold,  hush  ! 

Har.  What  is  it  ? 

Din.  It's  a  surprise. 

Har.  A  surprise  ? 

Din.  Yes,  we're  going  to  be  surprised. 

Har.  How  do  you  know  ? 

Din.  Because  I  saw  the  cage. 

Har.  The  cage  !  what  cage  ? 

Din.  The  cage  the  hens  are  in. 

Har.  The  hens  !  which  hens  ? 

Din.  The  hens  mammy  is  going  to  give  us. 

Har.  Is  she  going  to  give  us  some  hens  ? 

Din.  Yes  !  and  a  cock  ! 

Har.  (clapping  his  hands).     Oh  ! 

Dili.  But  mind  you  mustn't  say  a  word  about  it — it's  a 

great  secret 

Har.  Take  care  !  there's  Lucy  coming. 

*  Tlie  characters  in  this  play  can  be  acted  either  by  girls  or  boj-s, 
the  names  being  changed. 


3i8  The  Surprise 

Enter  Lucy. 

Din.  and  Har.     Sh — sh  !     Sh — sh  ! 
Lucy.     What  is  it  1     Why  are  you  saying  '  Sh  ! '  like 
that? 

Din.  W^e've  got  a  secret. 

Lucy.     A  secret !  what  sort  of  secret  ? 

Har.  A  secret  in  a  cage. 

Din.  You  naughty  boy  !  hold  your  tongue  ! 

Lucy.     In  a  cage  !     It's  a  bird,  then  ! 

Har.  Take  care  !  here's  Edith  ! 

Enter  Edith. 

Din.,  Har.  and  Lucy.    Sh — sh  ! !  sh — sh  ! ! 

Edith.     What  is  it  !  what's  the  matter  1 

Din.     We've  got  a  secret. 

Har.     You  naughty  girl  !  hold  your  tongue  ! 

Lucy.  They  won't  tell  me  what  it  is.  It  must  be  a 
bird,  because  it's  in  a  cage. 

Edith.     In  a  cage  !     It  might  be  a  wild  beast. 

Din.  and  Har.     A  wild  beast  !  ha,  ha  ! 

Edith.  Well,  how  should  I  know  what  it  is,  if  you  dun't 
tell  me  ? 

Lucy.     Let's  try  to  guess. 

Har.  (to  Din.)  After  all,  if  they  guess  right  it  woii't 
be  our  fault. 

Din.     No,  that's  true. 

Edith.     Is  it  a  bird  ! 

Har.     Of  course  it's  a  bird,  you  stupid  ! 

Edith.  I'm  not  stupid — it  might  have  been  a  squirrel. 
Squirrels  are  in  cages  sometimes. 

Har.  Of  course,  it  might  have  been  a  crocodile,  but  it 
isn't. 

Lucy.     Is  it  a  canary  1 

Har.     Bigger. 


T/ie 

Surprise 

Edith 

.     A  thrush  ? 

Din. 

Bigger. 

Har. 

Take  care  ! 

there 

•s  Peggy. 

Enter  Peggy. 

All. 

Sh— sh!  sh- 

-sh! 

319 


Peggy.       What  is  it  ?  what's  the  matter  ? 

Lucy.     We're  guessing  a  secret. 

Har.     Trying  to  guess  it,  you  mean. 

Edith.     It's  something  in  a  cage. 

Peggy.     Oh,  I'll  guess  too  !     Is  it  a  pigeon  ? 

Din.     Bigger. 

Peggy.     What  does  it  do  ? 

Din,     It  surprises  us. 

Peggy.     I  mean  what  noise  does  it  make  ? 

Har.     It  makes  us  say  Sh — sh  ! 

Edith.     Take  care  !  there's  Dick  coming  ! 

Enter  Dick. 

All.     Sh— sh  !  sh— sh  ! 

Dick.     What  is  it  ?  what  are  you  doing  that  for  ? 

Lucy.     We've  got  a  secret. 

Din.     A  secret  that  we  won't  tell  you. 

Dick.  Then  you're  very  rude  indeed.  I  don't  like  rude 
people. 

Ed.     Try  and.  help  us  to  guess  it. 

Dick.  What  sort  of  a  thing  is  it  ?  The  last  time  we  had 
a  secret  it  was  some  knitted  slippers  for  Pappy.  Is  this  secret 
a  pair  of  slippers,  or  a  woollen  comforter  ? 

Har.     Oh,  you  a7'e  a  stupid  child  ! 

Din.     How  could  a  pair  of  slippers  get  into  a  cage  ? 

Dick.     Quite  easily,  if  anyone  put  them  there. 

Lucy.     Well,  it  isn't  a  pair  of  slippers. 

Din.     Take  care  !  take  care  !  there's  Jack  ! 


320  The  Surprise 

Jack  comes  in  mysteriously. 

All.     Sh  — sh  !  sh— sh  ! 

Jack.     What  are  you  making  that  noise  foi*  1     Why  are 
you  all  behaving  like  steam-engines  in  a  station  ? 

Din.     We've  got  a  secret. 

Jack.     Have  you  1     So  have  I. 

All.     Have  you  1     What  is  it  about  ? 

Jack.     Ha  !  I  won't  tell  you. 

Din.     Then  we  won't  tell  you  ours. 

Jack.     Is  yours  a  nice  secret  1 

Har.     Lovely  ! 

Din.     It's  a  surprise  mammy's  got  for  us. 

Jack.     It  must  be  a  good  big  secret  if  it  takes  so  many 
of  you  to  keep  it. 

L\icy.     Do  tell  us  yours,  Jack  ! 

Edith.     There's  a  good  boy  ! 

Jack,     Then  you  must  tell  me  yours  afterwards. 

Din.     Very  well,  we  will. 

Jack.     All  right,  then,  come  here  and  I'll  tell  you. 

\Beckons  them  all  round  him  mysteriously. 

Jack.     You  must  know  that  as  I  went  along  the  back 
passage  I  saw  a  curious-looking  parcel. 

All.     A  parcel  ! 

Jack.     So  I  bent  down  to  look.     T  listened 

All.     Listened  ! 

JoAik.     And  peeped. 

All.     Peeped  ! 

Jack.     There  was  a  great  flapping  and  pecking  going 
on  inside  ! 

All,     Flapping  and  pecking  ! 

Ja^k.     And  then  what  do  you  think  I  heard  ? 

All.     What  1 

Jack.     Cock-a-doodle-doo  I 
Peggy.     A  cock  ? 


The  Surprise  321 

Jacli.  Yes  !  a  cock  and  some  hens. 

Din.  The  cock  and  hens  mammy  is  going  to  give  us  ! 

Dick.  Is  she  going  to  give  us  a  cock  and  hens  ? 

Din.  Yes !  that  was  our  secret  too  ! 

Har.  That's  the  surprise  ! 

Enter  Patience. 

Patience.  Quick,  quick,  all  of  you  !  Mammy  wants 
you  !  she's  got  a  great  surprise  for  you  ! 

All.     Oh,  the  cock  and  hens  !     How  nice  ! 

Patience.  Why,  do  you  know  what  the  sui-prise  is 
already  ? 

Jack.  It  won't  be  much  of  a  surprise  if  we  all  know 
what  it  is. 

Din.     What  a  pity  !     What  shall  we  do  ?     \_All  rejii-cf. 

Har.  I  have  it  !  Instead  of  mammy  surprising  us, 
we'll  surprise  her,  by  telling  her  we  know  her  secret  !  That 
will  come  to  just  the  same  thing. 

Din.     Oh,  what  a  good  idea  ! 

All.     Quick  !  let's  go  and  surprise  mammy  ! 

\Exeunt,  runnintj. 


rillN'TED    BY 

sroriLSWooDK  and  co.,  xew-stkekt  squauh 

LONDON 


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1  <&  3,  24j.    Vols.  3  &  4,  211.   Vol.  5,  18j.    Vol.  6,  16«.    Vol.  7,  Sl«. 

Vol.  8,  18«. 
Freeman's  Historical  Geography  of  Europe.    2  vols.  8vo.  81i.  6<f. 
Fronde's  English  in  Ireland  in  the  18th  Century.    8  vols,  crown  8vo.  18<. 

—  History  of  England.    IS  vols,  crown  8vo.  3i.  6d.  each. 

—  Short  Studies  on  Great  Subjects.    4  vols,  crown  8vo.  24j. 
Gardiner's  History  of  England  from  the  Accession  of  James  I.  to  the  Outbreak 

of  the  Civil  War.    10  vols,  crown  8vo.  60*. 

—  History  of  the  Great  Civil  War,  1642-1649  (3  vols.)    Vol.  1, 1642-1644, 

8vo.  21».    Vol.  2,  1644-1647,  8vo.  2is. 

—  Student's  History  of  England,    Illustrated.    (3  vols.)    Vol.  1,  cro\\n 

8vo.  4s. 
Gibbs'  England  in  South  Africa.    8vo.  5*. 
Greville's  Journal  of  the  Reigns  of  King  George  IV.,  King  William  IV.,  and 

Queen  Victoria.    Cabinet  Edition.    8  vols,  crown  8vo.  6*.  each. 
Harrison's  TheContemporary  History  of  the  French  Revolution.   Cr.  8vo.  Zs.  GJ. 
Historic  Towns.     Edited  by  B.  A.  Freeman,  D.C.L.  and  the  Rev.  William  Hunt, 

M.A.    With  Maps  and  Plans.    Crown  8vo.  Zs.  6d.  each. 


Oxford.    By  the  Rev.  0.  W.  Boase. 
Colchester.    By  the  Rev.  B.  L.  Outtg. 
Carlisle.    By  the  Rev.  M.  Creighton. 
Winchester.  By  G.  W.  Kitchin,  DJ). 
York.    By  the  Rev.  Jamea  Raine. 


London,    By  W.  J.  Loftle. 
Exeter.    By  E.  A.  Freeman. 
Cinque  Ports,     By  Montagu 

Burrows 
Bristol.    By  the  Rev.  W.  Hunt. 

Hurlbert's  France  and  her  Republic  :  a  Record  of  1889.    8vo.  18*. 

Jennings'  Ecclesia  Anglicana  :  a  History  ot  the  Cliurch  of  Christ  in  England. 

Crown  8vo.  7s.  6d. 
iMsky'B  History  of  England  in  the  Eighteenth  Century.    Vols.  1 1 2, 1700-1760, 

8to.  38».   Vols.  3  <fe  4. 1 760-1784, 8vo.  36».    Vols. 5  &  6, 1784-1793, 36* . 

Vols.  7  &  8, 1793-1800,  3Gs. 

—  History  of  European  Morals.    2  vols,  crown  8vo.  16«, 

—  —      —  Rationalism  in  Europe.    2  vols,  crown  8vo.  18i. 
Leger's  History  of  Austro-Hungary.    Crown  8vo.  \0s.  Gd. 

Lyde's  Introduction  to  Ancient  History.    Crown  8vo.  3s. 


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Uaoanlay's  Complete  Works.    Library  Edition.    8  vols.  8to.  £6.  Si, 

—  —  —         Cabinet  Edition.    16  vols,  crown  8yo.  £4. 16«. 

—  History  of  England  :— 

Popular  Edition.    2  vols.  or.  8vo.  6*.  I  Cabinet  Edition.  8  vols,  post  8to.  1S«. 
Student's  Edition.  S  vols.  cr.  8vo.  12i.     Library  Edition.  6  vols.  8vo.  £4. 
People's  Edition.    4  vols.  cr.  8vo.  16«.  | 

Macanlay's  Critical  and  HiEtcrical  Essays,  with  Lays  of  Ancient  Rome     In  On« 
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People's  Edition.    2  vols.  cr.  Svo.  8*.   | 

Macaulay's  Miscellaneous  Writings.    2  vols.  Svo.  3U,    1  vol.  crown  870,  is,  6d, 

—  Misoellaneons  Writings  and  Speeches  : — 

Popular  Edition.    Cr.  8vo.  2*.  6d.      |    Student's  Edition.   Cr.  Svo.  6». 

—  Miscellaneous  Writings,    Speeches,    Lays  of  Ancient  Rome,  Ac. 

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—  Writings,  Selections  from.    Crown  Svo.  6«. 

—  Speeches  corrected  by  Himself.    Crown  Svo.  8«.  M. 
Magnus's  Outlines  of  Jewish  History.    Fcp.  Svo.  3s.  6d. 
Malmesbury's  (Earl  of)  Memoirs  of  an  Ex-Minister.    Crown  8to.  7«.  64. 
May's  Constitutional  History  of  England,  1760-1870.    3  vols,  crovra  Svo.  18*. 
Melbourne  Papers  (The).    Edited  by  Lloyd  C.  Sanders.    Svo.  18*. 
Merivale'sFall  of  the  Roman  Republic.    12mo.  7s.  6d. 

—  General  History  of  Rome,  b.c.  763-a.d.  476.    Crown  Svo.  7«.  Id 

—  History  of  the  Romans  under  the  Empire.    Cabinet  Edition.  8  vols. 

poet  Svo.  48*     Popular  Edition.  8  vols.  3*.  6d.  each. 
■    Murdock's  Reconstruction  of  Europe,  from  the  Rise  to  the  Fall  of  the  Second 
!  French  Empire.    Crown  Svo.  Ss. 

;j    Oman's  History  of  Greece  from  the  Earliest  Times  to  the  Macodouiau  Conquest. 
!  Crown  Svo.  4s.  6(7. 

I    Porter's  History  of  the  Corps  of  Royal  Engineers.    2  vols.  Svo.  36i. 
ij    Ransome's  The  Rise  of  Constitutioinl  Government  in  England.    Crown  Svo.  Gs. 

Rawlinson's  The  History  of  Phoenicia.    Svo.  2is. 

Russell's  (Lord  John)  Life.    By  Spencer  Walpole.    2  vols.  Svo.  36*. 

Seebohm's  Oxford  Reformers — Colet,  Erasmus,  &  More.    Svo.  lis. 

Short's  History  of  the  Church  of  England,    Crown  Svo.  7s.  id. 

Smith's  Carthage  and  the  Carthaginians.    Crown  Svo.  $s, 

Stephens'  (H.  Morse)  History  of  the  French  Revolution.    3  vols.  Svo.    Vol.  1 . 
19s.    Vol.  2,  in  the  pra.i. 

Stubbs'  History  of  the  University  of  Dublin.    Svo.  12.!.  6d. 

Symes'  Prelude  to  Modern  History.    With  Maps.    Crown  Svo.  2^.  Gd. 

Taylor's  Manual  of  the  History  of  India.    Crown  Svo.  7t.  8d, 

Tojnbej's  LectuKs  on    the  Industrial  Revolution  of  the  18th  Century  in 
England.    Svo.  10*.  6rf. 

Walpole's  History  of  England,  from  1816.    Library  Edition.    6  vols.  8yo.  £4. 10*. 
Cabinet  Edition.    6  vols.  Gs.  each. 


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A  Selection  of  "Works 


EPOCHS    OF    ANCIENT    HISTORY. 

Edited  by  the  Rev.  Sir  G.  W.  Oox,  Bart.  M.A.  and  by  0.  Sankky,  M.A. 

10  volumes,  fcp.  8vo.  with  Maps,  price  2*.  6d.  each. 

The  Gracchi,  Marius,  and  Snlla.    By  A.  H.  Beesly,  MJL.    With  2  Maps. 

The  Early  Roman  Empire.    By  the  Rev.  W.  Wolfe  Capes,  M.A.    With  2  Maps. 

The  Roman  Empire  of  the  Second  Century.    By  the  Rev.  W.  Wolle  Capes,  M.A . 

With  2  Maps. 
The  Athenian  Empire  from  the  Plight  of  Xerxes  to  the  Fall  of  Athena.    By  the 

Rev.  Sir  G.  W.  Cox,  Bart.  M.A.  With  6  Maps. 
The  Rise  of  the  Macedonian  Empire.  By  Arthur  M.  Cnrteis,  M.A.  With  8  Maps. 
The  Greeks  and  the  Persians.  By  the  Rev.  Sir  O.  W.  Cox,  Bart.  With  4  Maps. 
Rome  to  its  Capture  by  the  Gauls.  By  Wilhelm  Ihne.  With  a  Map. 
The  Roman  Triumvirates.  By  the  Very  Rev.  Charles  Merivale,  D.D.  With  Map. 
The  Spartan  and  Theban  Supremacies.  By  Charles  Sankey,  M.A.  With  6  Maps. 
Rome  and  Carthage,  the  Punic  Wars.    By  R.  Bosworth  Smith.    With  9  Mapc. 

EPOCHS    OF    MODERN    HISTORY. 

Edited  by  0.  Colbeck,  M.A.  19  volumes,  fcp.  8vo.  with  Maps.  Price  2*.  6d.  each. 

The  Beginning  of  the  Middle  Ages.   By  the  Very  Rev.  R.W.  Church.  WithSMaps. 

The  Normans  in  Europe.    By  Rev.  A.  H.  Johnson,  M.A.    With  3  Maps. 

The  Crusades.    By  the  Rev.  Sir  G.  W.  Cox,  Bart.  M.A.    With  a  Map. 

The  Early  Plantagenetg.     By  the  Right  Rev.  W.  Stubbs,  D.D.    With  2  Maps. 

EdwarQ  the  Third.     By  the  Rev.  W.  Warhurton,  M.A.    With  3  Majjs. 

The  Houses  of  Lancaster  and  York.    By  James  Gairdner.    With  6  Maps. 

The  Early  Tudors.     By  the  Rev.  0.  E.  Moberly,  M.A. 

The  Era  of  the  Protestant  Revolution.    By  F.  Seebohm.    With  4  Maps. 

The  Age  of  EUzabeth.    By  the  Rev.  M.  Creighton,  M.A.  LL.D.    With  6  Maps. 

The  First  Two  Stuarts.    By  Samuel  Rawson  Gardiner.    With  i  Maps. 

The  Thirty  Years' War,  1618-1648.    By  Samuel  Rawson  Gardiner.    With  a  Map. 

The  English  Restoration  and  Louis  XIV.,  1648-1678.     By  Osmund  Airy. 

The  Fall  of  the  Stuarte.    By  the  Rev.  Edward  Hale,  M.A.    With  11  Maps. 

The  Age  of  Anne.    By  B.  E.  Morris,  M.A.    With  7  Maps  and  Plans. 

The  Early  Hanoverians.    By  E.  B.  Morris,  M.A.    With  9  Maps  and  Plans. 

Frederick  the  Great  and  the  Seven  Years'  War,  By  P.  W.  Longman.  With  2  Maps. 

The  War  of  American  Independence,  1775-1783.   By  J.  M.  Ludlow.   With  4  Maps. 

The  French  Revolution,  1789-1795.    By  Mrs.  S.  R.  Gardiner.    With  7  Mapi. 

The  Epoch  of  Reform,  1830-1860.    By  Justin  McCarthy,  M.P. 

EPOCHS    OF    CHURCH    HISTORY. 

Bdited  by  the  Rev.  Mandkll  Crkightos.    10  vols.  fop.  8vo.  price  is,  6i.  each. 

The  English  Church  in  other  Lands.    By  the  Rev.  H.  W.  Tucker. 

The  History  of  the  Reformation  in  England.    By  the  Rev.  George  G.  Perry. 

The  Church  of  the  Early  Fathers.     Bv  Alfred  Plummer,  D.D. 

The  Evangelical  Revival  in  the  Eishteenth  (Century.    By  the  Rev.  J.  H.  O vertoa 

A  History  of  the  University  of  O.'tford.     By  the  Hon.  G.  C.  Brodrick,  D.C.L. 

A  History  of  the  University  of  Cambridge.     By  J.  Bass  Mullinger,  M.A. 

The  English  Church  in  the  Middle  Agea.    By  Rev.  W.  Hunt,  M.A. 

The  Arian  Controversy.    By  H.  M.  Gwatkin,  M.A. 

Wyoliffe  and  Movements  for  Reform.    By  Reginald  L.  Poole. 

The  Counter-Reformation.     By  A.  W.  Ward. 

The  Church  and  the  Roman  Empire.     By  the  Rev.  A.  Carr. 

The  Church  and  the  Puritans,  1.^70-1660.     By  Henry  Offley  Wakemaa. 

The  Church  and  the  Eastern  Empire     By  the  Rev.  H.  F.  Tozer. 

Hildebrand  and  His  Times.     By  the  Rev.  W.  R.  W.  Stephens. 

The  Popes  and  the  Hoheastaufen,    By  Ugo  Balzani. 


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BIOGRAPHICAL    WORKS. 

Armstrong's  (E.  J.)  lAle  and  Letters.  Edited  by  Q.  F.  Armstrang.  Pep.  8yo.  7«.M. 

Bacon's  Life  and  Letters,  by  Spedding.    7  vols.  8to.  £4.  ii. 

Bagehot'g  Biographical  Studies.    1  voL  8yo.  lit. 

Carlyle's  (Tliomas)  Life.   By  James  A.  Froude.  Crown  8vo.    1795-1835,  2  vols. 

7s.    1831-1881,  -2  vols.  7s. 
Clavers,  the  Despot's  Champion.    By  A  Southern.    Crown  8vo.  7*.  Sd. 
Fox  (Charles  James)  The  Early  History  of.  By  Sir  &.  0.  Trevelyan.    Or.  8vo.  6*. 
Proude's  Caesar  :  a  Sketch.    Crown  8vo.  3^.  6d. 
Hamilton's  (Sir  W.  R.)  Life,  by  Q-raves.    3  vols.  8vo.  16«.  each. 
Havelook's  Life,  by  Marshman.    Crown  8vo.  3*.  64. 
Macanlay's  (Tiord)  Life  and  Letters.    By  his  Nephew,  Sir  Q-.  0.  Trevelyan,  Bart. 

Popular  Edition,  1  vol.  cr.  8vo.  2s.  6d.    Student's  Edition,  1  vol.  or.  8vo.  8*. 

Cabinet  Edition,  2  vols,  post  8vo.  12*.    Library  Edition,  2  vols.  8vo.  36». 
McDougall's  Memoirs  (Bishop  of  Labuan).    By  C.  J.  Bunyon.    8vo.  14*.' 
Mendelssohn's  Letters.    Translated  by  Lady  Wallace.    S  vols.  cr.  8vo.  it.  eaob. 
Moore's  Dante  and  his  Early  Biographers.     Crown  8vo.  4s.  6(7. 
Newman's  Apologia  pro  Yitft  Su&.  Crown  8vo.  6i.   Cheap  Edition,  cr.  8vo.  3.;.  6d. 

—  (Cardinal)    Letters    and  Correspondence  during  his  Life   in  the 

English  Church.    2  vols.  Svo. 
Pasteur  (Louis)  His  Life  and  Labours.    Crown  8va  7t.  6d. 
Shakespeare,  Outline  of  the  Life  of.     By  J.  0.  HalliweU-PhilUpps.    Illustrated. 

2  vols,  royal  Svo.  21»-. 
Shakespeare's  True  Life.  By  James  Walter.  With  500  Illustrations.  Imp.  8vo.21«. 
Sonthey's  Correspondence  with  Caroline  Bowles.    8vo.  14i. 
Stephen's  Essays  in  Ecclesiastical  Biography.    Crown  Sro.  7*.  M, 
Vignoles'  (C.  B.)  Life.    By  his  Son,    Svo.  I6s. 
Wellington's  Life,  by  Gleig.    Crown  Svo.  3*.  6d. 


MENTAL  AND    POLITICAL   PHILOSOPHY     FINANCE,    tcC. 

Adams'  Public  Debts ;  an  Essay  on  the  Science  of  Finance.    Svo.  12i.  6i. 
Amos'  Primer  of  the  EngUsh  Constitution.    Crown  Svo.  6*. 
Bacon's  Essays,  with  Annotations  by  Whately.    Svo.  10*.  Mt 

—  Works,  edited  by  Spedding.    7  vols.  Svo.  73*.  6<J. 
Bagehot's  Economic  Studies,  edited  by  Hutton.    Svo.  lOj.  6<f. 
Bain's  Logic,  Deductive  and  Inductive.    Crown  Svo.  10*.  6d. 

Part  L  Deduction,  4*.        |        Pabt  n.  Indoctdon,  U,  itL 

—  Mental  ana  Moral  Science.    Crown  Svo.  10*.  64. 

—  The  Senses  and  the  Intellect.    Svo.  15/. 

—  The  Emotions  and  the  Will.    Svo.  18j. 

Blake's  Tables  for  the  Conversion  of  5  per  cent.  Interest  from  i\  to  7  per  cent. 

Svo,  I2s.  6d. 
Case's  Physical  Realism.    Svo.  15«. 
Ornmp'BShortKnqniry  into  the  Formation  of  English  Political  Opinion.  870.  7t.6d. 

—     Causes  of  the  Great  Fall  in  Prices.    Svo.  6s, 


LONQMANS,  GREEN,  &  CO.,  London  and  New  York. 


A  Selection  of  Works 


Dowell'B  A  History  of  Taxation  and  Taxes  in  England.    8vo.    Vols.  1  &  3,  21«. 

Vols.  3  ji  4,  21«. 
Oieen'a  (Thomas  Hill)  Works.   (3  vols.)   Vols.  1  &  2,  FhtloRophioal  Works.  8vo. 

16*.  each.    Vol.  3,  Miscellanies.    With  Memoir.    8vo.  21*. 
Home's  Rasays,  edited  by  Green  &  Qrose.    2  vols.  8vo.  28». 

—       Treatise  of  Hunan  Nature,  edited  by  Green  &  Groea.    S  toIb.  8vo.  284. 
Ladd's  Elements  of  Physiological  Psychology.    8vo.  21». 
Lang's  Custom  and  Myth  :  Studies  of  Early  Usage  and  Belief.    Crown  8to.  7«.  M. 
Leslie's  Essays  in  Political  Economy.    8vo.  lOi.  6<i. 
Lewea's  History  of  Philosophy,    8  vols.  8vo.  32*. 
Lubbock's  Origin  of  Civilisation     Illustrated.    8vg.  18i. 
Madeod'B  The  Elements  of  Banking.    Crown  8vo.  6i. 

—  The  Theory  and  Practice  of  Banking.    Vol.  1,  8vo.  12j.  Vol.  J,  14i. 

—  The  Theory  of  Credit.    (2  vols.  8vo.)    Vol.  1,  Is.  6d.    Vol.  2,  Part  1, 

4s.  6(2. 

Manuals  of  Catholic  Philosophy,  crown  8vo.  :— 
Clarke's  Logic.    5s. 
Kickaby's  First  Principles  of  Knowledge.    5.-. 

—  Moral  Pliilosophy.    5*. 

—  General  Metaphysics.    5s, 
Malier'.s  Psychology.     6s.  6(/. 

Boedder's  Natural  Theology.    (In  I  fie  press.) 
Devas'  Political  Economy.    (In  pnparotion.) 

Max  Miiller's  The  Science  of  Thought.    8vo.  21j. 

Mill's  (James)  Analysis  of  the  Phenomena  of  the  Human  Mind.   S  vols,  Svo.  iStt 

Mill  (John  Stuart)  on  Representative  Government.    Crown  8vo.  3s. 

—  —  on  Liberty.    Crown  8vo.  1j.  id. 

—  —  Examination  of  Hamilton's  Philosophy.    8vo.  IBi. 

—  —  Logic.    Crown  8vo.  5s, 

—  —  Principles  of  Political  Economy.    S  vols.  8to.  80i.    People'l 

Edition,  1  vol.  crown  8vo.  Si. 

—  —  Utilitarianism.    8vo.  Si. 

—  —  Three  Essays  on  Religion,  Sio,    8vo.  6i, 
Monck's  Introduction  to  Logic.    Crown  8vo.  5s. 
Mulhall's  History  of  Prices  since  1850.    Crown  8vo.  6*. 
Bandars'  Institutes  of  Justinian,  with  English  Notes.    8vo.  18*. 
Seebohm's  English  Village  Community.    8vo.  16i. 

Bnlly's  Outlines  of  Psychology.    8vo.  12j.  6d. 

—    Teacher's  Handbook  of  Psychology.    Crown  8vo.  Bi.  64, 
Swinburne's  Picture  Logic.    Post  8vo.  6s, 
Thompson's  A  System  of  Psychology.    2  vols.  8vo.  86i. 
The  Problem  of  Evil.    8vo.  10*.  6d, 

—  The  Religious  Sentiments  of  the  Human  Mind.    8vo.  7*.  6d, 

—  Social  Progress  :  an  Essay.    8vo.  7*.  6d, 
Webb's  The  Veil  of  Isis.    8vo.  10*.  6d. 
Whately'g  Elements  of  Logio.    Crown  8vo.  it.  64. 

_  —      —  Rhetoric.    Crown  8vo.  is.  M. 


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in  General  Literature. 


Zeller'B  History  of  Bclecticism  in  Greek  Philoeophy.    Orovn  8to.  lOi.  td. 

—  Plato  and  the  Older  Academy.    Crown  8vo.  lit, 

—  Pre-Socratic  Schools.    3  vols,  crown  8vo.  30*. 

^      Socrates  and  the  Socratic  Schools.    Crown  8vo.  10*.  64, 

—  Stoics,  Epicureans,  and  Sceptics.    Crown  8vo.  16i. 

—  Outlines  of  the  History  of  Greek  Philosophy.    Crown  Sto.  lOf.  6d. 


CLASSICAL    LANGUAGES    AND    LITERATURE 

.Sschylns,  The  Eomcnides  of.     Text,  with  Metrical  Ttneiiah  Translation,  bj 

J.  P.  Daviet.    8vo.  7i. 
Aristophanes'  The  Achamlans,  translated  by  B.  T.  Tyrrell.    Crown  870.  If. 
Aristotle's  The  Ethics,  Text  and  Notes,  by  Sir  Alex.  Grant,  Bart.  3  vols.  8vo.  83/. 

—  The  Nicomachean  Ethics,  translated  by  Williams,  crown  8vo.  7*.  64, 

—  The  PoUtios,  Books  I.  III.  IV,  (VU.)  with  Translation.  Ac  by 

Holland  and  Lang.    Crown  8vo.  7s.  64. 
Becker's  Charidet  and  Oallua,  by  Metcalfe.    Post  8vo.  7t.  M.  each. 
Oioero's  Correspandence,  Text  and  Notes,  by  B.  Y.  Tyrrell.  Vols.  1,  S,  U  3,  8tO. 

13i.  each. 
Harrison's  Myths  of  the  Odyssey  in  Art  and  Literature.    IHustrated.    8vo.  18*. 
Hellenica  :  a  Collection  of  Essays  on  Greek  Poetry,  &c.     Edited  by  Evelyn 

Abbott.    Svo.  16*. 
Plato's  Parmenides,  with  Notes,  &o.  by  J.  Magnlre.    Svo.  It.  M. 
Sophocles.    Translatetl  into  Englisli  verse  by  Robert  Whit«law.    Cr.  Svo.  %t.  6d. 
Virgil's  Works,  Latin  Text,  with  Commentary,  by  Kennedy.    Crown  »vo.  IOj.  M. 

—  aineid,  translated  into  English  Verse,  by  Conington.       Crown  Svo.  6». 

—  —  —  _       _         _     byW.J.ThomhlU.Or.8vo.ri.6<l, 

—  Poems,        —  —       —     Prose,  by  Conington.     Crown  Svo.  6j. 

r    —      Eclogues  and  Georgics  of  Virgil.    Translated  by  J.  W.  Mackail.   Boyal 

ICnio.  5*. 
Witt's  Myths  of  Hellas,  translated  by  P.  M.  Younghnsband.    Crown  Svo.  St.  td. 

—  The  Trojan  War,  —  —  Fcp.  Svo.  3i. 

—  The  Wanderinesof  iriytsep,  —  Grown  Svo.  8«.  M. 

—  The  Retreat  of  the  Ten  Tnousand,        —  Crown  Svo. 


ENCYCLOP/EDIAS,    DICTIONARIES,   AND    BOOKS    OF 
REFERENCE. 

Acton's  Modem  Cookery  for  Private  Families.    Fcp.  Svo.  U.  M, 
Ayre's  Treasury  of  Bible  Knowledge.    Fcp.  Svo.  6*. 

Blake's  Tables  for  the  Conversion  of  6  per  Cent.  Interest,  &c.    Svo.  12*.  64. 
Chisholm's  Handbook  of  Commercial  Geography.    29  Maps.    Svo.  16*. 
GwHt's  Bnoyclopaedia  of  Architecture.    Svo.  62*.  6d. 

Keith  Johnston's  Dictionary  of  Geography,  or  General  Gazetteer.    8vo.  42*. 
Longmans'  New  Atlas.    66  Maps.    Edited  by  G.  G.  Chisholm.    4to.  or  imperial 
Svo.  12*.  6(i. 


LONGMANS,  GREEN,  &  CO.,  London  and  New  York. 


A  Selection  of  Works 


M'Onllocb's  Dictionary  of  Commerce  and  Commercial  Navigation.    8to.  6Zi, 
Maonder's  Biographical  Treasury.    Fcp.  8to.  6j. 

—  Historical  Treasury.    Fcp.  8vo.  6«. 

—  Scientific  and  literary  Treasury.    Fop.  8vo.  ti. 

—  Treasury  of  Bible  Enowledfre,  edited  by  Ayie.    Fcp.  8vo.  6i. 

—  Treasury  of  Botany,  edited  by  Lindley  &  Moora.    Two  Farts,  12«. 

—  Treasury  of  Geography.    Fop.  8vo.  6j. 

-•        Treasury  of  Knowledge  and  Library  of  Reference.    Fcp.  8vo.  6«. 

—  Treasury  of  Natural  History.    Fcp  8vo.  6«. 

Qnain'a  Dictionary  of  Medicine.    Medium  8vo.  31i.  6d.,  or  in  3  toIb.  ZU. 
Rich's  Dictionary  of  Roman  and  Greek  Antiquities.    Crown  8to.  7<.  M. 
Roget's  Thesaurus  of  English  Words  and  Phrases.    Crown  Svo.  lOi .  M, 
WllUch'g  Popular  Tables,  by  Marriott.    Crown  8vo.  lOi,  id. 


NATURAL    HISTORY,    BOTANY     8c    GARDENING. 

Bennett  and  Murray's  Handbook  of  Cryptogamic  Botany.    Svo.  16i. 
Hartwig'B  Aerial  World.    With  68  Illustrations.    Svo.  10*.  ed. 

—  Polar  World.    With  93  Illustrations.   Svo.  lOi.  6d. 

—  Sea  and  its  Living  Wonderi.     With  31o  niustratioiis.    8to.  lOx,  td. 

—  Subterranean  World.    With  80  Illustrations.    Svo.  10*.  6d. 

—  Tropical  World.    With  180  Illustrations.    Svo.  lOt.  ed. 
Llndley'a  Treasury  of  Botany.    2  vols.  (cp.  svo.  13«. 
Loudon's  BocyclopsBdia  of  Gardening.    Svo.  21«. 

-  —  Plante.    Svo.  «i. 
Rivera's  Orchard  House.    Crown  8vo.  6i. 

—  Miniature  Fruit  Garden.    Fcp.  Svo.  is. 

Stanley's  Familiar  History  of  British  Birds     Crown  Svo,  3*.  6d, 
Wood's  Bible  Animals.    With  112  Illustrations.    Svo.  lOj.  6d. 

—  Homes  Without  Hands.    With  140  Illustrations.    Svo.  10*.  6d, 

—  Insects  Abroad.    With  COO  Illustrations.    Svo.  lOi.  6d. 

—  Insects  at  Home.    With  700  lUusirationa.    ttvo.  ICs.  8d. 

—  Out  of  Doors.    With  11  Illustration.s.    Crown  Svo.  3.».  6(7. 

—  Petland  Revisited.    With  33  Illustrations.    Crown  Svo.  St.  Bd. 
rr     Strange  Dwellings.    With  60  Illustrations.    Crown  Svo.  3.t.  6d, 


THEOLOGICAL   AND    RELIGIOUS   WORKS. 

Oolenso  on  the  Pentateuch  and  Book  of  Joshua.    Orovm  8to.  6«. 
De  la  Saussaye's  JIanual  of  the  Science  of  Religion. 
Hobart's  Medical  Language  of  St.  Litke.    itvo.  I6t. 

Macdonald's  (G.)  Unspoken  Sermons.  First  and  Second  Serial.  Crown  8to.  3«.  64. 
each.    Third  Series.    Crown  Svo.  7*.  6d. 

—  The  Miracles  of  our  Lord.    Crown  Svo.  it,  M. 

Martineau's  Endeavours  after  the  Christian  Life.    Crown  Svo.  It.  id. 


LONGMANS,  GEEEN,  &  CO.,  London  and  New  York. 


in  General  Literature. 


Martineau's  Hymns  of  Praise  and  Prayer.    Crown  Svo.  is.  6d.    SSmo.  I4.  M. 

—  The  Seat  o£  Authority  In  Religion.    Svo.  lii. 

—  Benuons,  Hours  of  Thought  on  Sacred  Things.    2  vols.  1$.  id.  each, 
Hax  MUller'a  Origin  and  Growth  of  Religion.    Crown  Svo.  7t.  6i. 

—  —      Science  of  Religion.    Crown  Svo.  7*.  6<i. 

—  —      Gifford  Lectures  on  Natural  Religion.    Crown  Svo.  10*.  6d. 
Newman's  Apologia  pro  Vitfl  Suft.  Crown  Svo.  %t.   Cheap  Edition,  or.  Svo.  3*.  6rf. 

—  The  Arians  of  the  Fourth  Century.    Crown  Svo.  6s.    Cheap  Edition, 

crown  Svo.  Zs.  Qd. 

—  The  Idea  of  a  University  Defined  and  Illustrated.    Crown  Svo.  It, 

—  Historical  Sketches.    3  voli.  crown  Svo.  6«.  each. 

—  Disonssions  and  Arguments  on  Various  Subjects.    Crown  Svo.  6«, 

—  An  Essay  on  the  Development  of  Christian  Doctrine.    Crown  Svo.  6«, 

Cheap  Edition,  crown  Svo.  3.s.  6(Z. 

—  Certain  Difficulties  Felt  by  Anglicans  in  Catholic  Teaching  Con- 

sidered.   VoL  1,  crown  Svo.  It.  6cJ.    Vol.  2,  crown  Svo.  6».  6<i. 

—  The  Via  Media  of  the  Anglican  Church,  Illustrated  In  Lectures,  &o. 

2  vols,  crown  Svo.  61.  each. 

—  Essays,  Critical  and  Historical.  2  vols,  crown  Svo.  12«.  Cheap  Edition, 

crown  Svo.  It. 
•       Essays  on  Biblical  and  on  Eoclesiastioal  Miracles.    Crown  Svo.  </. 
Cheap  Edition,  crowu  Svo.  3*.  6</. 

—  Present  Position  of  Catholics  in  England.    Crown  Svo.  7*.  6d. 

—  An  Essay  in  Aid  of  a  Grammar  of  Assent.    Ts.  6d. 

—  Select  Treatises  of  St.  Athanasius  in  Controversy  with  the  Ariani . 

Translated.  2  vols,  crown  Svo.  16*. 
Perring'g  The  '  Work  and  Days  '  of  Moses.  3*.  6d. 
Reply  to  Dr.  lightfoot's  Essays.    By  the  Author  of  '  Supernatural  Religion.' 

Svo.  6*. 
Bobcrta'  Greek  the  Language  of  Christ  and  His  Apostles.    Svo.  18<. 
Supernatural  Religion.    Complete  Edition.    3  vols.  Svo.  S6t, 

*,*  For  other  Works  see  Messrs.  Longmans,  Green,  &  Co.'s  Catalogue  of 
Theological  AVorks. 

TRAVELS,    ADVENTURES,    &C. 

Baker's  Bight  Years  in  Ceylon.    Crown  Svo.  3*.  6<f. 

—  Rifle  and  Hound  in  Ceylon.    Crown  Svo.  3*.  6d. 

Brassey's  Sunshine  and  Storm  in  the  East.    Library  Edition,  Svo.  21i.    Cabinet 
Edition,  crown  Svo.  7i.  6(2.    Popular  Edition,  4to.  6d. 

—  Voyage  in  the  '  Sunbeam.'    Library  Edition,  Svo.  21i.   Cabinet  Edition, 

or.  Svo.  7t.  6(2.    School  Edit.  fcp.  Svo.  2«.    Popular  Edit.  4to.  M. 

—  In  the  Trades,  the  Tropics,  and  the '  Roaring  Forties.'   Cabinet  Edition, 

crown  Svo.  17*.  6d.    Popular  Edition,  4to.  6d. 

—  Last  Journals,  18S6-7.    Illustrated.    Svo.  21*. 

Bryden's  Kloof  and  Karroo.    Sport,  Legend,  &o.,  in  Cape  Colony,    Svo.  10*.  6<2, 
Clutterbuck's  The  Skipper  in  Arctic  Seas.    Illustrated.    Crown  Svo.  10*.  6(2. 
Coolidge's  Swiss  Travel  and  Swiss  Guide-Books.    Crown  Svo.  10*.  6(2. 


LONGMANS,  GREEN,  &  CO.,  London  and  New  York. 


10  A  Selection  of  Works 


Deland's  Florida  Days.    Illustrated.    4to.  21*. 

Pioade'B  Oceana ;  or,  England  and  her  Colonies.    Cr.  8vo.  2i.  boards ;  3i.  6<l.  oloth. 

—  The  English  in  the  West  Indies.    Crown  8vo.  is.  boards ;  2t.  6d.  oloth. 
Sowltt's  Visits  to  Remarkable  Placei.    Crown  8vo.  3s.  6d, 

James's  The  Long  White  Mountain  ;  or,  a  Journey  in  Manchuria.    Svo.  iO, 

Knight's  A  Treasure  Hunt.    Crown  Svo. 

Lees  and  Olutterbuck's  B.C.  1887  :  a  Ramble  in  British  Columbia.    Cr.Svo.  6i. 

Nanson's  The  First  Crossing  of  Greenland.    2  vols.  Svo.  36^. 

Riley's  Athos ;  or.  The  Mountain  of  the  Monks.    8vo.  21«. 

Smith's  The  White  Umbrella  in  Mexico.    Fcp.  Svo,  6*.  6d. 

Three  in  Norway.    By  Two  of  Them.    Crown  Svo.  it.  boardi ;  St.  6d.  cloth. 

Willoughby's  East  Africa  and  its  Big  Game.    Svo.  21*. 

WoWs  Rambles  in  the  Black  Forest.    Crown  Svo  7s.  6d. 

WORKS    BY    RICHARD    A.    PROCTOR. 

The  Orbs  Around  Us.    With  Chart  and  Diagram*.    Crown  Svo.  it. 

Other  Worlds  than  Ours.    With  14  Illustrations.    Crown  Svo.  5t, 

The  Moon.    With  Plates,  Charts,  Woodcuts,  and  Photographs.    Crown  Svo.  6». 

Universe  of  Stars.    With  22  Charts  and  22  Diagrams.   Svo.  10«.  M. 

Light  Science  for  Leisure  Hours.    3  vols,  crown  Svo.  6s.  each. 

Chance  and  Luck.    Crown  Svo.  2i.  boards ;  2s,  6d.  cloth. 

Larger  Star  Atlas  for  the  Library,  in  12  Circular  Maps.    Folio,  16i. 

New  Star  Atlas,  in  12  Circular  Maps  (with  2  Index  Plates).    Crown  Svo.  6f. 

The  Student's  Atlas.    12  Circular  Maps.    Svo.  5*. 

How  to  Play  Whist,  with  the  Laws  and  Etiquette  of  Whist.    Crown  Svo.  3*.  Oi. 

Home  Whist :  an  Easy  Guide  to  Correct  Play.    16mo.  1*. 

The  Stars  in  their  Seasons.    Imperial  Svo.  5i. 

Strength.    With  9  Illustrations.    Crown  Svo.  2s. 

Strength  and  Happiness.    With  9  Illustrations.    Crown  Svo.  6t, 

Rough  Ways  Made  Smooth.    Crown  Svo.  65. 

Our  Place  Among  Infinities.    Crown  8vo.  5t. 

The  Expanse  of  Heaven  :  Essays  on  the  Wonders  of  the  Firmament.    Crown 

Svo.  5*. 
Pleasant  Ways  In  Science.    Crown  Svo.  6*. 
Myths  and  Marvels  of  Astronomy.    Crown  Svo.  6t. 
The  Great  Pyramid  :  Observatory,  Tomb,  and  Temple,    Crown  Svo.  St. 

AGRICULTURE,    HORSES,    DOGS,    AND    CATTLE. 

Fitawygram's  Horses  and  Stables.    Svo.  5s. 

Lloyd's  The  Science  of  Agriculture.    8vo.  124. 

Loudon's  Bncyclopeedia  of  Agriculture.    21«, 

Prothero's  Pioneers  and  Progress  of  English  Farming.    Crown  Svo.  6j. 

Steel's  Diseases  of  the  Ox,  a  Manual  of  Bovine  Pathology.    Svo.  ll«. 

—  —        —        Dog.    Svo.  10*.  6d. 

—  —       —        Sheep.    Svo.  12«. 

Btonehenge's  Dog  in  Health  and  Disease.    Square  crown  Svo.  It.  td, 
Ville  on  Artificial  Manures,  by  Crook«s.    Svo,  ilt, 
Tonatt's  Work  on  the  Dog.    Svo.  6«. 
—        _    _   —  Horse.    Svo.  7t,  64. 


LONGMANS,  GREEN,  &  CO.,  London  and  New  York. 


WORKS    OF 


By  H.  Rider  Haqqard. 


She.    3<.  6d. 
Allan    Quater- 
main.  3^.  6d, 
Cleopatra.    6*. 
Beatrice.     Gs. 


Maiwa'8  Revenge. 

2s.  bds. ;   3  j.  6(2. 

cloth. 
Colonel  Quaritch. 

3*.  6d. 


Byll.RlDEliHAGGAUD&AxDREWLAXG. 

The  WorM's  Desire.    Gs. 


By  the  Earl  of  Beaconsfield. 


Alroy,  Ixlon,  &0. 
Endymion. 
The  Young  Duke. 
Contarini  Fleming. 
Henrietta  Temple, 


Vivian  Grey. 
Venetia. 
Coningsby. 
Lothalr. 
Tancred. 
Sybil. 

Price  It.  each,  bds. ;  1*.  6d.  each,  cloth. 
The  HuGHENDEN  BDrriON.     With 

2    Portraits    and    11    Vignettes. 

11  vols.    Crown  8vo.  42». 


By  G.  J.  Whttk-Melvillk. 


The  Gladiators. 
The  Interpreter. 
Hohnby  House. 


Kate  Coventry. 
Digby  Grand. 
General  Bounce. 


Gk>od  for  Nothing.  Queen's  Maries. 
Price  1*.  eiich,  bds. ;  U.  6d.  each,  (doth. 


By  Elizabeth  M.  Skwell. 

Amy  Herbert.        Oleve  HalL 

Gertrude.  Ivors. 

Ursula.  Earl's  Daughter. 

The  Experience  of  Life. 

A  Glimpse  of  the  World. 

Katharine  Aahton. 

Margaret  PercivaL 

Laneton  Parsonage. 
U.6d.  each,  cloth;  ■li.6d.eacb,  gilt  edges. 


By  Mni.  Molesworth. 
Marrying  and  Giving  in  Marriage. 
2>.  6d. 

Silverthorns.    ?^.  |  Keighbours.    Gs. 
The  Palace  in  the  Garden.    55. 
The  Third  Miss  St.  Queutin.    6s. 
The  Story  of  a  Spring  Morning.   6*. 


By  May  Kendall. 
Such  is  Life.    6s. 


By  Mrs.  OLiPHAyT. 

In  Trust.  |        Madam. 

Price  Is.  each,  bds. ;  It.  6d.  each,  cloth. 

Lady  Car.    2t.  6d. 


FICTION. 

By  G.  H.  Jkssop. 
Judge  Lynch.    6t. 
Gerald  Ffrench's  Friends. 


6i. 


By  A.  C.  Doyle. 
Micah  Clarke.  3s.  6d. 
The  Captain  of  the  Polestar,  &o.  6s. 


By  G.  G.  A.  Murray. 
Gobi  or  Shamo.    6s, 


By  C.  Phillipps-Wolley. 
Snap.    6s. 


By  Stanley  J.  Weyman. 
The  House  of  the  Wolf.    6*. 

By  James  Payn. 
The  Luck  of  the  DarreUs. 
Thicker  than  Water. 
It.  each,  boards ;  It.  6d,  each,  cloth. 


By  Anthony  Troixopb. 
The  Warden. 
Barchester  Towers. 
It,  each,  boards ;  Is.  6d.  each,  cloth. 


By  Bret  Harte. 
In  the  Carquinez  Woods, 

Price  Is.  boards  ;  It.  6d,  cloth, 
On  the  Frontier.    1*. 
By  Shore  and  Sedge.    Is. 


By  Robert  L.  Stevenson. 
The  Dynamiter.    Ij.  iwd.    1«.  6<i.  el. 
Strange  Case  of  Dr.  Jekyll  and  Mr. 
Hyde.     Is.  sewed ;  1*.  6d.  cloth. 


By  R.  L.  Stevenson  and  L.  OsBOiraNi. 
The  Wrong  Box.    5s. 


By  Edna  Lyall. 
Autobiography  of  a  Slander.    1$, 


By  P.  Anstey. 
The  Black  Poodle,  and  other  Stories. 
Price  2s.  boards  ;  2s.  6d.  cloth. 


By  Mrs.  Dkland. 
John  Ward,  Preacher. 

2t.  6d.  cloth. 
Sidney.    6s. 


is.  boards ; 


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12 


A  Selection  of  Works 


By  the  Authok  of  '  Tn  k  Atelibb  du 

LY8.' 

The  Atelier  du  Lyg.    2*.  M. 
Mademoiselle  Mori,    2i.  6d. 
In  the  Olden  Time.    2*.  6d. 
Hester's  Venture,    it.  6<L 
That  Cliild.    3.s.  CI. 
Under  a  Cloud.     5,«. 
Fiddler  of  Liigan.     Gs. 
A  Child  of  the  Revolution.    6*. 


By  A.  D.  Crake. 
HiSTouic AL  Talks,  price  5s.  each  :-  - 
Edwy  the  Fair.    (  The     House     of 
Alfgar  the  Dane.        Walderne. 
Tlie  Rival  Heirs.  |  BrianFitz- Count. 

By  Agnks  Gibehnb. 

Ralph  Hard'-astle's  Will.    5s. 
Nigel  Browning.    5s. 


By  Chuistie  Ml'rhay&  Hy.  Hermah. 
Wild  Darrie.    2s.  bds     2«.  6d.  cloth. 


By  Jean  Ixgelow. 
Very  Young,  and    Quite    Another 
Story. 


By  CHKisTra  Motray  &  Ht.  Murray. 
A  Dangerous  Oatspaw.     2s.  6d. 


By  A.  Lee  Ksioht. 
Adventures  of  a  Midsliipniite.    5.?. 


By  J.  A.  Froddb. 
The  Two  Chiefs  of  Dunboy. 


By  Mrs.  Hugh  Bell. 
Will  o' the  Wisp.    Zs.ed. 


By  William  O'Bribn,  M.P. 
When  we  were  Boys.    2s.  Gd. 

By  the  Author  op  '  Thoth.' 
Toxar.    6j. 


By  L.  T.  Meade. 

The  O'Douuells  of  Inchfawn. 
Daddy's  Boy.     Us. 
Deb  and  tlic  Duchess.    5*. 
House  of  Surprif  es.    3s.  6d. 
The  Beresfiird  Prize.    S.«. 


By  Mrs.  O'Reilly. 
Hurstleigh  Dene.    6s. 
Kurke'g  Mill.    2^.  6d. 


By  G.  Colmore. 
A  Living  Epitaph. 


By  James  Baker. 
By  the  Western  Sea.    6*. 


By  L.  N.  COMYN. 
Atherstone  Priory. 


By  W.  E.  NoRRis. 
Mrs.  Fenton  :  a  Sketch. 


6«. 


By  C.  M.  YoNGE,  M.  Bkamston,  &c. 
Astray  :  a  Tale  of  a  Country  Town. 
3s.  6d. 


Stories  of  Wicklow.    Pep.  8vo.  9*. 
Mephistopheles  in  Broadcloth :  a 

Satire.    Fcp.  8vo.  is. 
Victoria  Regina  et  Imperatrlx  :  a 

Jubilee  Song  from  Ireland,  1887i 

4to.  2i.  6d. 


POETRY   AND   THE    DRAMA. 

Armstrong's  (Sd.  J.)  Poetical  Works.    Fcp.  8vo.  6t. 

—  (G.  P.)  Poetical  Works  :— 

Poems,  Lyrical  and  Dramatic.  Fcp. 
8vo.  6t. 

XTgone :  a  Tragedy.    Pep.  8vo.  6t. 

A  Garland  from  Greece.  Fcp.  8vo.9i. 

King  Saul.    Pep.  8vo.  6*. 

King  David.  Pep.  8vo.  6*. 

King  Solomon.  Fcp.  8vo.  8i. 
Arnold's  (Sir  Edwin)  The  Liglit  of  the  World 
Ballads  of  Books.  Edited  by  Andrew  Lang. 
Bowdler's  FEtmlly  Shakespeare.  Medium  8to.  14«.  6  vols.  fcp.  8yo.  111. 
Clark- Kenneily's  Pictures  in  Rhyme.  With  Illustrations.  Crown  8vo. 
Courthope's  The  Paradise  of  Birds.     Illustrated  by  Lancelot  Speed. 

8vo.  7s.  6d. 
Dante,  Le  Commedia  dL    A  New  Text,  carefully  revised.    Fcp.  8vo.  Gs. 
Deland's  The  Old  Garden,  and  other  Verses.    Fcp.  8vo.  6s. 
Goethe's  Faust,  translated  by  Birds.    Crown  8vo.    Part  1,  6s,;  Fart  II.  6« 

—  —      translated  by  Webb.    8vo.  I2s,  6d, 

—  —      edited  by  Selss.    Crown  8vo.  6s. 


.    Crown  8vo. 
Fcp.  8vo.  6j. 


Gd.  net. 


Roval 


LONGMANS,  GREEN,  &  CO.,  London  and  New  York. 


in  General  Literature.  13 

Haggard's  (Ella)  Life  and  its  Author.    With  Memoir,  &c.    Crown  8vo.  3i.  6d. 
Ingelow'B  Poemi.    2  Vols.  fcp.  8vo.  12*. ;  "VoL^S,  fop.  8vo.  5*. 

—  Lyrical  and  other  Poems.    Fcp.  8vo.  2*.  S<L  oloth,  plaim  ;  34.  doth, 

gUt  edges. 
Kendall's  (May)  Dreams  to  SelL    Fcp.  8to.  6t. 
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in  General  Literature.  15 


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by  Sir  Richard  Webster,  Q.C.  M.P.  and  a  Contribution  on  '  Paper  Chasing ' 
by  Walter  Bye.    With  6  Plates  and  46  Woodcuts. 

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16     A  Selection  of  Works  in  General  Literature. 


THE    SILVER     LIBRARY. 

Crown  8vo.  price  3s.  Gd.  each. 


s.   d. 
Cardinal  Newman's  Apo- 
logia pro  Vita  Sua  . .        . .    3  6 

Cardinal   Newman's    Cal- 

lista :  a  Tale  of  tlie  Tliird 
Century         3  6 

Cardinal     Newman's     An 

Essay  on  the  Uevelopmeut 

of  Christian  Doctrine      . .     3  6 

Cardinal  Newman's  Essays, 

Critical   iiiitl  Historical     'Z 

vols 7  0 

Cardinal    Newman's    The 

Ariaus  of  tlie  i<ourth  Cen- 
tury     3  6 

Cardinal  Newman's  Verses 

on  Various  Occasions        . .     3   6 

Cardinal   Newman's  Two 

Essays  on  Bil)lical  aucl 
Ecclesiastical  Miracles      . .     3  6 

She  :  a  History  of  Adventure. 
By  H.  Eider  Haggard.  With 
32  Illustrations       . .         . .     3   6 

Allan  Quatermain.    By  H. 

Rider  Haggard.  With  20 
Illustrations 3   6 

Colonel  Quarltch,  V.C.  :  a 

Tale  of  l.ountry  Life.  By 
H.  Eider  Haggard.  AVith 
Frontispiece  and  Vignette    3  6 

Micah  Clarke :  his  statement. 
A  Tale  of  Monmouth's  Ee- 
bellion.  By  A.  Conan  Doyle. 
With  Frontispiece  and  Vig- 
nette   3  6 

Petland  Revisited.    By  the 

Bev.  J.  V,.  Wood.  With  33 
Illustrations 3   6 

Strange  Dwellings:  a  De- 
scription or  ihe  Haljitations 
of  Animals  abridged  from 
'Homes  without  Hands.' 
By  the  Rev.  J.  O.  Wood. 
With  60  illustrations        ..    3  6 


s.  d. 
Out  of  Doors  :  a  Selection  of 
Original  Articles  on  Practi- 
cal Natural  Historv.  By 
the  Rev.  J.  G.  Wood. "  With 
11  Illustrations        ..         ..3   6 

Familiar  History  of  Birds. 

By  the  late  Edward  Stanley, 
D.D.  Lord  Bishop  of  Nor- 
wich.   With  160  Woodcuts    3   6 

Rifle  and  Hound  in  Ceylon. 

By  .Sir  !?.  W.  Baker.     With 

6  Illustrations         . ,         ..36 

Eight  Years  in  Ceylon.    By 

Sir  S.  W.  Baker.  With  6 
Illustrations 3   6 

Memoirs  of  Major-General 

Sir  Henry  Havelock,  K.C.B. 
By  John  Clark  Marshmau. 
With  Portrait  ..         ..     3   6 

Visits  to  Remarkable  Places : 

Old  Halls,  Battle-fields, 
Scenes  Illustrative  of  Strik- 
ing Passages  in  English 
History  and  Poetry.  Bv 
William  Hewitt.  With  80 
Illustrations 3  6 

Field  and  Hedgerow.  Last 
Essays  of  Richard  JoflEeries. 
With  Portrait         . .        ..36 

Story  of  Creation  :  a  Plain 
Account  or  Evolution.  By 
Edward  Clodd.  \Vith  77 
Illustrations 3  6 

Life  of  the  Duke  of  Wel- 
lington. By  the  Kev.  G.  1!. 
Gleig,  M.A.    With  Portrait    3   6 

History   of    the    Romans 

uniler  the  Empire.  By  the 
Very  Rev.  Charles  Merival^, 
D.C.L.  Dean  of  Ely.    8  vols. 

each    3   6 

Csesar:  a  Sketch.    By  Jamea 

A.  Eroude 3   6 

Thomas  Carlyle :  a  History 
of  his  Life.  By  J.  A. 
Froude,  JI.A. 

1795-1835.     2  vols 7  0 

1H34-1881.    2  vols 7   0 


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